When First We Met
by Smallvillian
Summary: It's time for college, and love is in the air- for Martha and Jonathan.
1. Default Chapter

Title: When First We Met

Author: Smallvillian

Disclaimer: Most characters aren't mine

The air was crisp and cool. The start of fall brought with it the usual clamoring of young, eager minds milling past, headed off to who knows where in the guise of burrowing out their own little niche in the world. College was supposed to be a time of fresh independence, of finding one's own way in the world, beginning a new life. So why did it feel so much like the opposite?

Martha Clark sat as she did every day studying notes written just an hour before, crossing T's and I's, glancing up every now and then at the world that buzzed busily around her until the clatter nearly died away and classes began inside the buildings she watched from her bench outside. This was always a good time of the day for her--no class to rush off to, no errands to run, just time alone with her thoughts and her work. They were often fine companions, though the conversation was sorely lacking.

"Hey, Jonathan, we're all going downtown for some pizza, you wanna come?"

"Nah, I'm gonna catch up on some studying. Exam next class."

Well, so much for quiet and thoughtful. Laying her pen down, Martha looked about for the two voices that had abruptly broken through the quiet she so enjoyed only to find that perhaps she should bring her nose out of her books more often if what met her eyes was what she had been missing all this time. Oh my.

"You sure? We're all gonna hang out for a while."

"I'm sure. I'll catch you later."

He had a rather nice voice, too, she realized, now that she could place each with their owner. Denim, flannel, and gorgeous sat just a couple of yards away, stretched across a bench as if it were his own personal lounge chair, taking in the noonday sun. Sleeves rolled to the elbow. Feet kicked up like he hadn't a care in the world. It was only when he turned and smiled at her, taking a bite of an apple he'd pulled from his small paper bag, that she realized she had been staring--and rather blatantly. Had there been a hole nearby, she most certainly would have crawled into it. But her books would have to do.

Pressing on with a chapter on federal law as though it were the holy writ, she was nearly halfway through the third branch of government and its role in the "checks and balances" system when at last she conceded to the fact that a certain attractive opportunity was not going to stop knocking at her subconscious until she answered the door.

What exactly was the problem? This young man was handsome. He seemed nice enough and he'd smiled at her...so she'd ducked into her books. That's right, girl. Just ignore him. That'll teach him. God knows you've had a full enough life so far--studying and reading and lets not forget the debate team. Smooth. Very smooth, she chided herself. She felt like the child her father so often accused her of being. For goodness sake, this was college and it was time she grew up.

With a new sense of purpose, Martha gathered her things and chanced another look across the way. He was still there munching his snack but by then had taken out books of his own, flipping back and forth between pages and looking lost in thought. Her resolve faltered as she told herself it would be rude to interrupt him now. Yes, of course that was the reason she wouldn't talk to him It couldn't possibly be that she had no idea what to say. Oh, this was ridiculous. What could be less difficult than opening one's mouth and letting words come out?

Finally, she took hold of what boldness she had left, strode right up to him, and said:

"Nice apple." And proceeded to die of mortification-- or at least wish she had.

His chin turned up, his blue eyes appraising her with some uncertainty, as though he were thinking perhaps she had said something entirely different and had he had just misunderstood. Then he smiled a second time and closed the book he had been reading. "Thanks, I picked it out myself."

Thank God he had a sense of humor, she thought, and to her own surprise, she laughed then took a breath and regrouped the troops. "What I mean to say is...I..." Her eyes dropped to the book he held. A familiar cover peeked out from under his arm and she gave thanks to a higher power who'd obviously taken pity on her. "I see you have finance this quarter. Do you have Professor MacDonald?"

"Big Mac? Yeah, I do. I just left there, actually." He stood, his book in hand, and tossed the fruit into a nearby garbage pail. It was then that Martha realized that he was far taller than she had at first thought. Staring up at him, the playfulness in his eyes, his blonde hair tousled by a passing breeze, she couldn't quite remember what they'd been talking about. Left who where?

Martha shuffled her books to her other arm and swept a stand of hair behind her ear, composing herself. "Oh, me too. Well, actually, I have him first thing in the morning and I, um, I was kind of tired this morning. I think I may have fallen asleep. Do you think maybe I could borrow your notes?" Granted, things hadn't started off that well, but she congratulated herself on managing to sound fairly articulate.

"Sure. I think most people fall asleep in there. It's not just the morning group, believe me. Luckily, nodding and pretending to listen while the rest is on autopilot is something I learned a long time ago." Before she could say another word, he was kneeling down, rustling through the red backpack that sat lopsided at his feet. " I hope you can read my writing. Sometimes even I have to guess at it," he laughed then produced a green notebook and--still on bended knee, with a flick of the wrist, in a move reminiscent of the gallant prince offering his fair lady the finest flower-- he held it out to her. "M'lady."

Perhaps it was the resident cynic in her or maybe just her pride, but now that she had regained some amount of poise, she wasn't about to further embarrass herself by becoming a giggling schoolgirl over the slightest gesture--charming as it may have been. She simply smiled in kind and took the notebook, placing it somewhere between the others she carried while he got to his feet.

"You don't even know my name. How can you be so sure I'll bring it back?" It wasn't the most flirtatious thing she could have said but it was far from produce products or any other nonsense she might have blurted out.

After a moment of consideration, he chuckled and answered,"I prefer to believe in people. But if it makes you feel any better, my name's Jonathan. Jonathan Kent."

"Pleased to meet you. I'm Martha Clark," she said, blinking up at him before realizing a handshake seemed to be in order, but having hands that were otherwise occupied sent them both fumbling. A few exchanged 'Oh wait's and 'Here let me's later and all books were finally and successfully set aside on the bench behind them. "As I was saying, I'm Martha Clark," she informed him, attempting to sound as though she had planned everything just that way as she quickly smoothed her shirt and held out her hand.

"Hi," he said, smiling bigger than before, and took her hand giving it a friendly shake.

"This is--it's terribly nice of you. I haven't seen too many familiar faces. It's good to see a friendly one." Yes, that was better. Polite but not too forward. And she'd managed to remember to let go of his hand , though now, with no books, what to do with her own was suddenly a mystery. She settled for sweeping the same misbehaving strand from her face.

"Oh, no trouble at all, but, um..."

But? There was a 'but'? Martha felt her cheeks burn with an embarrassment she hoped wasn't as painfully obvious as it felt and opened her mouth, ready to make a quick excuse to leave with some dignity intact. "...It wouldn't be very friendly of me to not at least be sure you had no trouble--like I said, my handwriting can be a puzzle, even to me. I have some time. Do you want to go over everything?"

Only when he had finished talking did she realize her mouth was still open. It opened and closed a few more times before any sound actually came out-- "Well, what about your--" 'Exam' she didn't say .

"My what?"

Martha looked up into those kind blue eyes before answering.

"Nothing."

TBC...


	2. part 2

"What precedent was set in the case of Brown versus the Board of Education and how does it apply to the case discussed above?"

Martha made a face as though she had just been told an obscene joke with no discernible punch-line, then heaved a heavy sigh and collapsed face-first onto the book that lay open in front of her with a groan.

Jonathan put his hands up and tried to approximate an apologetic expression as he leaned back in his chair and adjusted his reading glasses. "Hey, don't shoot the messenger. I'm just reading what's on the paper," he said, tapping his pencil on the study sheet he held in front of him. "And if you expect to get through all of this today we better keep going."

She sat up and eyed him tiredly. "Slave driver," she countered, then begrudgingly opened her notebook for any information that might help to answer the question posed to her. She had been meeting Jonathan at the library where they'd studied together for almost a week now, but at the moment she wasn't sure whether his determination on her behalf was endearing or a form of mental torture. Maybe it was just payback for her being so hard on him about his own study habits, which apparently consisted of whatever reading he could squeeze in between classes. "I don't have to take this abuse, you know. I can go home for that," she quipped.

"Oh, no, you don't." Jonathan took off his glasses, holding them as he gestured pointedly at her. "If I had to learn all those watchama-formulas by heart, you, Ms. Clark, are going to know this"--he poked his finger at the paper still in his hand--"by Monday."

"Who says?" Martha crossed her arms and raised an expectant eyebrow as she stared at her study-mate from across the table.

"Me," he answered simply, leaning back in his chair again and grinning.

She glared back at him and took one more peek at the pages then stood and tugged primly at her skirt before clearing her throat. "In the case of Brown versus the Board of Education, first tried in 1952 but decided in 1954, it was determined that 'separate but equal' did not afford minority children the same rights and privileges afforded to their white counterparts under the Fourteenth Amendment. The Fourteenth Amendment guarantees that 'No state shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any State deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.' " She put her hands squarely on the table and bent toward her one-man audience. "Why then, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, do we continue to allow the denial of our own personal liberties as they pertain to life and the pursuit of liberty and --though not stated above-- happiness, under the guise of familial obligation when such action denies us the very freedoms we have fought so hard to attain? Such freedoms are God-given and supported under the law. So," she added forcefully, "If, under these circumstances, one decides that happiness is foremost, then the aforementioned individual reserves the right to do this. " The last word was punctuated by the closing of the book that had still lain open on the table.

Jonathan sat forward at the table, leaning on his elbows toward her. "Feel better?" he asked thoughtfully, peering up at her with a certain tranquil gleam in his eye-- and something else she wouldn't put a name to just then, but whatever it was, it made her very aware of how close they found themselves at that moment. Her hands were still on the table, her body still inclined toward his. Part of her wanted to move, step back, in some way remove herself from the awkward position she'd put herself into with her little theatrics. And part of her didn't.

She swallowed past the dryness in her throat and answered softly, "Yes."

"Good," he said almost as quietly, his eyes never leaving hers. "Do you wanna tell me what that was all about?"

It took a moment for the fog in her mind to clear enough to process not only the question but a coherent answer. Finally, she looked down, collected herself, and took a seat. "I don't know. I--do you ever wonder whether you're living your life or someone else's?"

"Every day," Jonathan sighed then straightened in his chair, laying his glasses and pencil on the table. To say Martha was shocked was an understatement. She had had a sneaking suspicion these past few days that the man could persuade a cat to bark if he so pleased. How could he possibly understand about her situation? He could do anything he chose to do....

"My dad's a farmer. His dad was a farmer, and now that's what he expects from me. The trouble is, I don't know that it's what I want, but I don't know how to tell him. He's given the shirt off his back just to keep the place. I'm busting my butt in three classes then have to drive home every Friday so I can try to make up as much work as I can around the place. Not to mention the part-time job at the loading docks to pay for this," he said, waving toward the books that lay stacked on the table. "Sometimes I wonder where it's all going to get me."

If a thimble had been handy, it might have made a nice hat at that moment. If she'd felt any smaller she might have disappeared--except for her eyes, which were large with shock. "Jonathan, I had no idea."

Jonathan almost laughed as he looked down and fidgeted nervously with the pencil he had left on the table. "Martha, I'm just a little on the poor side. I'm not dying." She'd never seen him blush before but was pretty certain that he had just been fairly close.

"Oh, no. I didn't mean...it's just that here I am feeling sorry for myself when my biggest problem is that I can't get up the nerve to tell my father I don't want to be a lawyer. I don't think I could ever manage all of that."

"Don't sell yourself so short--you work really hard. You're just smart enough to do it all with your mind and not your back." He tried to smile but his self-effacing jab didn't quite have the intended effect on either of them. "Any father would be proud of you," he added ruefully.

"I'm sure your father is just as proud of you," she assured him, resting what she hoped was a comforting hand on his shoulder.

But whatever melancholy mood had come over him was quickly swept away and locked safely in the secret place all men must have for those weaknesses that the world must never see. His eyes lit with that familiar happy glow as he turned to her and said, "Hey, I'm supposed to be the one cheering you up, remember?"

"You did." He stared back at her, probably likelier to believe she could fly, judging by the look on his face.

"You made me even more glad I met you. And, by the way," she said, her tone more cross, "the only thing I see that's poor around here is your view of me, Jonathan Kent, if you thought I gave two cents about whether you were a farmer, a plumber, or a Wall Street tycoon." Then she gave him a light pinch on the arm just to prove her point.

"Ow!" he cried, shrunk back in his chair, pretending to be mortally wounded and nursing his 'injury'. "You're brutal when you're angry."

Martha just rolled her eyes at his antics and his impossibly boyish grin. She had obviously said something right but sometimes he could be such a....a man. Maybe it would wear off, she thought absently, as she shook her head, smiled, and tugged her book closer to read.

"Of course, I could change my mind," A smirk crept across her lips despite her attempt to sound genuinely exasperated. She turned a page, purposefully not looking at him.

"You know, there's kind of a--well, a--a social thing in Smallville this weekend. I was wondering...if maybe you would want to go ---with me," he hastened to add, as though he honestly worried she might think he had asked on someone else's behalf.

So much for reading or anything else that might require actual thought. For a long moment she just sat there, staring blankly at the pages in front of her, replaying what he had said in her head just to be sure of the question. When Martha did look up, she almost felt guilty, him sitting there- fingers fidgeting once again with the pencil that lay on the table--looking positively vulnerable while he waited for a reply. But she couldn't exactly throw herself into his arms like some hokey scene straight out of a romance novel. After all, any self-respecting woman could never let a man think she was at his beck and call--despite the butterflies that now fluttered wildly around in her stomach.

"This weekend?" His face fell just a fraction at the uncertainty in her voice and she knew she couldn't let him linger any longer, especially since it was taking most of her own willpower not to jump up and announce the occasion to the whole building. "I think I can make it."

The smile on his face and hers was worth the wait.

TBC...


	3. Part 3

Martha scrambled about her bedroom, searching for a pair of shoes she was certain had been there just ten minutes before. Oh God, it was five forty. She really didn't to be one of those girls--the ones men always complained about--.never on time and primping themselves until they had nearly brushed their last hair out.

Goodness, was she wearing the right thing? Her reflection stared back at her from the full length mirror that stood across the room. A long, pale yellow dress, sleeveless, with white lily print hugged daintily to her; her red hair draped in ringlets to her shoulders. Not too dressy, but feminine and pretty. With one last satisfied nod, she turned away. Now if only she could find those shoes. Just as she was about to give up, she spied a spot of white poking out from underneath the edge of her bed, and grabbed the shoes she had decided on. They were dressy with a small heel but had the simple look of sandals. They went perfectly with the dress it had taken her hours to decide on. Not that that stopped her from worrying. What exactly did one wear to this type of occasion? Smallville certainly lived up to its name and while she'd been to more art shows and dinners in Metropolis than she cared to remember, somehow that wasn't much help in this instance. Just as she was about to consider changing yet again, there was a knock at the door.

"Jonathan, you're early," she stammered, opening the door to find her date standing just outside the doorway, hands clasped behind his back, having the appearance of someone in no particular hurry, who might as easily have been waiting at the corner for his bus to arrive. He smiled and stepped inside.

Where normally Jonathan wore clothes that were more work friendly--jeans and flannel or a t-shirt, sometimes with a jacket-- he now sported dark slacks, a crisp, blue dress-shirt, and a navy blue striped tie that came just to his black leather belt. "You look... beautiful."

No, it wasn't the first time a man had told her that, but usually it was an off the cuff remark, a polite pleasantry they'd said a dozen times, to a dozen different women, on a thousand different occasions. But this time was different. It was as if he realized, for the first time, that he truly meant it. His eyes lingered a moment longer, before she shut the door behind him, and he produced a single, crimson rose from behind his back, holding it deftly between two fingers. "This isn't quite as lovely, but..." he trailed off, nodding to the delicate flower, offering it to her, a shy, half-smile on his lips.

"Oh, how thoughtful. Thank you." Martha took the rose and held it just under her nose, breathing in its sweet, light fragrance. "You look pretty dashing yourself, sir," she added coyly.

"You're too kind." Jonathan tugged self-consciously at his tie. "I never feel like I get these things right," he complained, readjusting the knot and somehow managing to fumble over his own fingers.

"Maybe you just need a woman's touch." Martha laid her rose on the end table by the door, stood toe to toe with her much taller date and took hold of the misbehaving tie, working it neatly back into place with the same intense focus she gave any task. "There," she remarked, pleased with her work, "That's better," and swept her hands fleetingly over his shoulders, then pressed her palms to his chest, with every intention of only smoothing his shirt. But, as if of their own accord, they stayed.

While she stared up at him for what seemed like an eternity, knowing she should say or do something--anything-- the very air between them felt as though it pulled them closer and time itself wound down to a crawl. His eyes held hers with a sleepy affection, and before she had a chance to rationalize and analyze what a mistake it might be to behave so impulsively when the man had just barely come in the door, Jonathan, mercifully, made the decision for them both when his hands came to her face and he pressed his lips to hers.

It was something she knew she would always remember. The gentle chasteness of it. The heat of his skin against hers. The way he held her. The way she wanted him to.

But the uncertainty was evident in him when they broke apart, one of his hands still cupping her face, eyes searching hers. Both were stumbling blindly to catch up with the sudden spin forward their relationship had just taken.

Martha unthinkingly licked her lips and looked down, before saying quietly, "I think I like you in ties."

Jonathan let out a nervous chuckle and leaned nearer as he spoke, still touching her face. "And here I was hoping flannel did it for you."

Her eyes raised and met that sparkle in his, the one she often envied but rarely saw in herself. Searching inward, she did find something, though, something more free, more ready to take a chance, to come out and play. And she liked it.

"I suppose we'll have to test that theory later." Her finger traced along his chin and found it smooth, probably freshly shaved. She smirked, then turned and picked up the rose she had laid on the table, sauntering across the room into the kitchen. "I'll just put this in some water and get my purse."

The sense of being watched as she walked away broadened her smirk into a smile.

-------

A perpetual reunion, that was how Jonathan had described it. Despite the fact that most residents of Smallville couldn't wait to shake the hay from their shirts and head for parts unknown, there was still a part of them that needed to know just how Mrs. Jennings did at the fair that year or how the Rosses were getting along. It had become an unofficial tradition, no one was sure quite how long ago, for the recently college-bound to congregate each fall under the guise of obligation, thereby safely keeping their "coolness" in tact. And so here they were at the town's only dance hall.

"Let me help you." Jonathan offered his hand as Martha slid down from her seat in his red pick-up truck, her heels clicking against the pavement when they met the ground. With one hand, he shut the vehicle door, then he offered his arm. "Shall we?"

Martha still couldn't believe how different everything was here. It was so quiet and peaceful. For the most part, the only noise was the rustle of the trees and the chatter of people passing by. They'd seen maybe ten cars on their way into town. No one was in a hurry and if they were, they weren't going to run you over on the way. She was about to comment on it when someone called out.

"Jonathan, buddy!" They stopped as a young man approached them. His tie was crooked and too short, coming far above his tan trousers . His white shirt was slightly wrinkled, and his straight, dark hair, combed neatly to the side--stuck there with a creme of some sort--made for a sharp contrast to Jonathan's blonde, wavy, and naturally obedient locks. "Where have you been hiding this pretty gal, huh?" he growled and flashed a devilish grin.

"Away from you," Jonathan replied, with a good-natured laugh. "Martha, this is Ethan. Ethan, this is Martha Clark."

Both nodded a polite hello to one another. "Well, I can see why you're in such a hurry to get back to Metropolis these days," Ethan responded, still not taking his eyes off Martha.

"Who did you come with tonight?" Jonathan interjected, probably suspecting the young man had forgotten his own date and needed some reminding.

"Ooooh, you know, I brought, Nancy. You know how she is about the social scene. Busy, busy, busy. Speaking of, I better get back. She just wanted this from the car," he explained, waving a tube of what looked like cherry red lipstick. "And Jonathan, word to the wise, Steve showed up and he's started the party a little early if you know what I mean. I'll catch up with you guys later. It was nice meeting you, Martha."

Martha watched as Ethan hurried off but her question must have been obvious before she had the opportunity to ask it. "I went to school with Steve," Jonathan told her grimly. They walked on as they talked. "He was quarterback before I joined the team and replaced him my Sophomore year. He blew out his knee as running back that year and along with it any chance for a scholarship. Never went to college--he works at the auto-shop now. He's always blamed me for the way things turned out. Let's just say I'm not on his list of favorite people."

"That's too bad. But I hope you know you're not to blame."

"I do. I just wish he did. I guess now I kind of know how my father felt. For the longest time I blamed him for everything that went wrong in my life. I thought he settled too easily, you know?"

The two had stopped walking and stood at the door to the building as people drifted by. "So you two get along better?"

"Well, better is a relative term. At this point, we don't not get along, I guess you could say. We're just different, that's all. I think we always will be. Mom says we're just two stubborn men too caught up in locking horns to realize we're on the same side of the fence. Whatever that means....We better get inside before they drink all the punch."

Martha understood this waltz a little better now. By nature, Jonathan was the friendly sort, the guy everyone liked to call friend, but he was not, from what she could tell, prone to bouts of introspective, personal conversation. It was new territory, so whenever the mood struck him, she listened but never pushed for more than he was willing to offer. And when he indicated he had said enough, she would drop the matter. Small steps. That was the start of any journey.

"Are you sure we should go in?"

"I'm sure it'll be all right. Steve's a little bitter but he's still a decent guy. Besides, I'm not going to let anyone ruin tonight."

With that, they made their way into the building and mingled, greeting this person and that until Martha was sure her date must have known almost everyone there, all of whom seemed to be wondering who exactly this city girl was that he had brought back all the way from Metropolis.

"I feel a little like the ant under the magnifying glass," she whispered when they finally went for punch and stood watching the crowd. At the door, Ethan was now on his third trip to the car for whatever Nancy had decided she needed at that particular moment.

Jonathan grinned but not without sympathy. "It's a small town, Martha. If someone has a bad hair day, everyone has to know about it. Don't worry, they only eat the tourists."

"Ha ha. Very funny. I just wish I knew they liked me."

"I like you," he murmured-- in a way that made her oh so thankful to be a woman in this lifetime and every one after. That look of mischief hadn't escaped her either. The two had not left each other's side the whole evening but hadn't had a lot of time to themselves as of yet, so whatever he had in mind was quite welcome. "Listen, they're playing our song."

Soft music played in the background. Drinks set aside, he held out his hand. She took it and glided easily onto the dance floor, his arm around her, holding her close, the other hand clasped in hers as they moved gracefully together.

"You've done this before."

"A time or two," she replied, and smiled demurely up at him "When your father owns a law firm you go to a lot of 'functions.' I've never had such a good partner, though."

"We're still talking about dancing, right?" he asked, pretending to be concerned as they moved to the side and back again with ease.

"Among other things." Her arms went around his neck and pulled him closer until her mouth covered his, and this time the kiss deepened, turning passionate. And the music faded away...

"Jonathan Kent."

The two abruptly separated and discovered a rather unsteady fellow had picked that moment to make his introductions. "Maybe the lady would like to dance with me," he suggested, as if someone had already begun a conversation.

Jonathan put himself between the drunken stranger and Martha. "Go home, Steve. I think you've had a little too much to drink, okay buddy?"

"It's a party, right?" Steve announced, as if that explained everything. "The ladies like a man who can hold his liquor, isn't, that right, cupcake?" Martha eyed him uncomfortably, then stepped back as Jonathan took the man by the arm.

"Come on, let's go outside and get some air, friend,", he began, but his "friend" jerked away from him, stumbling back a few feet.

"Hey! Keep your hands off me, man! I don't need your help! I never needed your help! Jonathan Kent, Smallville's golden boy," he bellowed. "But everything he touches turns to brass."

By that time a small crowd had begun to watch and talk among themselves. And Martha was feeling more uneasy. "Jonathan, it's all right. Maybe we should just go."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did I ruin something for you? Sucks, doesn't it?" Steve laughed. "That's right, Jonathan, take your little whore and go back to Metropolis," he spat harshly.

Before anyone, much less Steve, could react, Jonathan had landed a hard blow square across the guy's jaw, sending him to the floor. For a man that had probably been drinking for at least an hour, he recovered quickly and took a swing of his own, which landed hard across Jonathan's face after a bystander grabbed hold of Jonathan's right arm to try to hold him back.

"Jonathan!" Martha cried. But by then all hell had broken loose.

-----

Jonathan and Martha sat on the steps outside. Jonathan's shirt was un-tucked and disheveled, the first few buttons undone; his tie was unknotted and hanging about his neck. Martha sat next to him, dabbing a handkerchief at the corner of his bloodied lip. He winced as she touched at the cut above his left eye, hissing against the pain of it. "I'm sorry," she said just above a whisper, carefully examining the cut and doing her best to be gentle.

"I'm the one who's sorry," he said miserably. "I didn't mean for this to happen."

"I know you didn't."

"It's just that---Nobody is going to say...to call you...that." He gestured toward the door of the building, where Steve was inside being sobered up, and frowned, which only caused him more discomfort.

"If he called me the queen of England, it doesn't make it true, and as much as I appreciate your protecting my honor, I'd much rather have you in one piece than brawling with a drunk, who won't even remember it tomorrow," she said briskly, still fussing over him.

He gave her a side glance, the wheels in his mind turning, but thought better of offering any counter-argument. "I really am sorry," he said again.

Martha scooted a step higher, making herself taller than him for once. With the handkerchief still in her hand, she draped her arms about his neck from behind and spoke into his ear as she hugged him against her. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"You mean other than the fact that you'll probably never go out with me again after tonight?" No doubt he had been preparing himself for whatever retribution one receives for bloodying a fellow party-goer.

"Never is an awfully long time, Jonathan. I was thinking more like next weekend." Jonathan craned his neck around, attempting to look her in the eye. He had obviously thought she was joking. "It's true, I don't need a knight on a white horse," she mused, then moved a hand over his heart. "But I could use a guy with a good one of these."

The dark cloud that had loomed over him ever since their unfortunate little incident began to dissipate. Jonathan laid his hand over one of her arms that were crossed over his chest., and she spied the slight twitch of a reluctant smile at the corner of his lips. "I promise we'll actually finish the next date."

"Who says this one is over? It's a beautiful night, and the music is still playing. Come on, slugger." A slight tug brought him to his feet, and she guided him to the top of the steps. Neither said a word as they put their arms around each other and danced under the stars.

TBC...


	4. part 4

"They say if you look hard enough, you can see into the future from here." Jonathan snuggled closer on the blanket he had spread out on the ground, adjusting his leg which rested casually over hers, and heaved a relaxed sigh as they stared off into the sky together. He was promptly and amusedly "mmm"ed against his throat. "No, it's true," he said, nodding toward the stars as Martha lay cradled in his arms, his fingers combing lazily through her hair. "Local legend has it that there were Indian tribes living about these parts, and the Seer would come up here to this very spot to call on his visions." Visions was emphasized with the appropriate ominous awe. Martha lifted her head and fixed him with a skeptical stare. "Well, that's what they say, anyway."

She settled back and gazed skyward again, considering his little tale. Whether it was true or strictly for entertainment's sake, she couldn't be sure but the notion did have its allure. "A little comforting, isn't it?"

"What's that?"

"That the future could already be there. No matter what you do, it can't be the wrong thing because it was always meant to be. No mistakes."

Jonathan shifted to his side and propped himself up on his elbow, watching her. He often did that--would study her face so intently, and every now and again, she wondered who else was there with them that he could find so completely fascinating. This time was different, though. This time he seemed...sad.

"But...where's the adventure in that?"

It was a simple question but one that told so much in its asking. Where one saw the safety of fate and the predictable, the other saw a prison of forced happenstance, the absence of choice and freewill. Crickets chirped and the other night things cooed and cawed about her, all having infinitely more to say on the subject.

Jonathan sat up a little straighter as he spoke."I mean, I wanna--I wanna look back and be able to say 'I did that,' to know that I changed the world because I could, not because I was supposed to. I wanna know I made a difference," he continued, an eagerness and zest for what the universe had to offer and what he had to offer it all but bursting out of him.

In the three months they had been dating, Martha learned a lot of little things about Jonathan--that at six he had once run away from home-- well, as far as the barn. He still had a slight phobia concerning spiders ever since being bitten by one in his sleep at ten years old and rushed to the hospital. And the mere mention of hot dogs had made him ill for a year after his cousin told him what they were made from. Last year, he read Huck Finn over the summer and found himself regularly shirking a bit of hay-pitching for a half hour of quiet reading here and there, which left the cows greatly displeased. Yes, she knew all those little things, everyday facts, but it was at times like these, when it was just the two of them, that she felt she'd gotten an honest glimpse into a man that the world didn't often see or was simply too busy to notice.

He was gentle, sweet, and doting, though she was sure he would vehemently protest such a description. Men were not gentle, they were gentlemen. Men were not sweet. They were decent. And they certainly were not doting. They were merely courteous.

Tonight revealed something else. Jonathan Kent was a dreamer.

"You must think I'm ridiculous," she said, embarrassed, looking anywhere but at him. "I'm just so tired of trying to please everyone. It would be so much easier to know things were just meant to be." That was a half truth, but it sounded slightly better than the whole: that her father was a difficult man and she hadn't yet developed the skill to stand in his presence and say "No." Martha picked absently at a loose thread in their blanket, still not wanting to face Jonathan. He had probably begun to reconsider his company just then, and who would blame him? Gee, Jonathan, I know you're excited about your life and all, but I'm still the little girl who can't disappoint daddy. The very idea made her own eyes roll nearly out of their sockets.

"What I think," he murmured, nestling closely once more and tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, "is that you are wonderful...and if your father doesn't know that, well then, I almost feel sorry for him."

Martha took Jonathan's hand and intertwined her fingers with his, observed her own fair skin sliding over his darkened, sun-kissed skin. And she wondered vaguely if it was proper for a young lady to contemplate just where else the sun had touched this hardworking, book-loving farm boy of hers. "Who said I was thinking about him?"

"Because it's the only time you talk like this."

Obviously, she needed to polish her feminine charms to a decent shine. That grave tone should have progressed to, at least, somewhat intrigued. God love him, the man did have a worried streak wider than the Metropolis skyline.

"Like what?"

"Like you don't have a say in your own life, like you're not the strong, intelligent, no-nonsense woman I know you are."

"It's complicated, Jonathan. My dad's had my future planned since the day my mother said 'I'm pregnant.' How am I supposed to tell him that I don't want it? He'd be crushed. And he'll think I'm not up to it, that I'm taking an easier road because I'm not capable or because I don't have the ambition. I'm not a quitter," she said firmly.

Jonathan shook his head unhappily and held her hand more tightly as though afraid she might decide to pull it back. "No, you're not. Martha, you could do anything you please. Believe me, I know. I've seen your work--not to mention several people bow their heads and cross themselves before they step up to debate you. As a lawyer, you'd be the best of the best. But I hate to see you working so hard for something you don't want."

That was the real question, wasn't it? What did she want? Indeed, there were so many things the world had to offer. Fine things. Elegant things. The best that money could buy. But looking back at the man beside her, his face etched with concern, Martha knew of only one thing she truly wanted, and money couldn't buy that.

"You are coming tomorrow, right?"

They hadn't discussed it, but it was usually a given that Jonathan would make it to a debate in Metropolis. She knew it wasn't the most riveting of events, but, whether he pretended or was genuinely glad to be there, either way, she was happy to see his face out among the crowd.

He hesitated, though. Martha could tell he wasn't ready to change the course of the conversation yet and didn't care for her little avoidance tactic. After a weighty pause, he answered with a sincere yet distant, "Of course I am," then rolled onto his back. His left arm was folded and tucked casually behind his head. His right hand still held hers. But he was quiet-- not coldly so, but quiet. If she listened close enough, she imagined, she could actually hear his jaw clinching tighter, biting back any number of things he had wanted to say but didn't.

Patience was not always a virtue Jonathan possessed, but he had been very understanding with her. He had never pried or pushed into a conversation he wasn't welcomed into, namely discussions about how her father felt about her choices. And the fact that by now he must suspect that she was holding something back was slowly eating away at her.

"It means a lot to me," she offered quietly, turning her head and watching him stare up at nothing in particular, until finally he glanced back at her, his expression softer.

"I'll be there," he assured her again and gave her hand a squeeze.

----

The afternoon had been almost a complete bore, saved only by the knowledge that when it was over, a certain young man would be waiting for her. Martha's team had placed well and stood a good chance at nationals this year . But that fact came second to the former as she made her way to the lobby, eagerly expecting to find the face she had seen all afternoon, only to be welcomed instead with "Martha, dear, wonderful performance."

No words were forthcoming as she gaped openly at the dark-haired man who was dressed in an impeccably neat gray business suit. He smiled broadly back at her. "At this rate, you'll be taking over the firm next year," he continued proudly as he put his arm around her.

When she found her voice, the only thing that managed to be sputtered out was "Dad, I wasn't expecting you."

"Well, I got back early and I thought I'd come by and see just what my hard-earned money is paying for, " he grinned. "Those young boys didn't know what hit them, did they? That's my little girl."

Martha took a few steps back and tried to appear the happy daughter, eyes darting about uncomfortably as she straightened her skirt. "Dad, I really wish you would have told me you were coming," she said, smiling meekly and searching past him for someone else.

"Since when do I need permission to come and support my daughter?" the man laughed. "And really, Martha, do try not to fidget. It becomes a nasty habit that a good lawyer can't afford to acquire."

Martha dropped her hands at her sides and grimaced at that last peevish remark. "I've been doing all right so far," she countered, but before she could elaborate any further, Jonathan had appeared at her side and put his arms around her. She'd been so distracted that he'd surprised her--and her father too, no doubt.

"You were great," he announced with a hug that lifted her off her feet and a quick kiss on the lips.

"Martha, dear, who is...this?" William Clark waved a hand loosely in Jonathan's direction and gave him a hard, quick look from head to toe. Skilled in the art of observation, he took swift inventory of one green denim button-down shirt, blue jeans, and sneakers before turning back to his daughter, awaiting some kind of explanation. Jonathan, who hadn't noticed the older man before then, answered the question and thinly veiled scrutiny with a disconcerted "Who the hell are you?" glare of his own.

So she hadn't told her father about Jonathan. She had meant to-- really, she had-- but it just never seemed like a good time. William Clark was an honest, decent man but the fact that his only daughter wasn't involved with the prince of some fictional wealthy utopian nation would go over about as well as--she stole another glance at her father's dour appearance-- as well as that.

Martha looked briefly from one man to the other. "Dad, this is--this is Jonathan. He's my, um, friend." And suddenly not looking at either seemed to be the only thing she could manage to do.

"Oh, Mr. Clark, I'm sorry. I didn't realize. Martha didn't mention you were coming. It's nice to finally meet you. I've heard so much about you." While Jonathan showed his most winning smile and gave the man's hand a hearty shake, her father continued to study him as though he were a small insect under glass.

"Yes, well, I wish I could say the same," came the flat reply.

Aaaand, there it was. The infamous William Clark charm, or lack thereof. Leave it to her dad to be completely tactless in less than one minute flat, which was an impressive record even by his standards. If she'd felt any lower, she would have been eye-level with the floor she was studying so hard.

"You've been busy, dad. I just never really had the chance...with school and everything. " That that was partially true might have made the situation more palatable, if not for the disappointment and hurt in the young man beside her. Her father wouldn't have seen it, but she did. His had eyes lost some of their shine. His smile had faded just a little "Jonathan's been to all of my debates in Metropolis," she added, not sure what exactly she expected to accomplish with that revelation, except to fan the flicker of hope that things wouldn't get anymore awkward.

"How nice"-- a sentiment that didn't reach the words as her father said them. "Does this Jonathan have a last name, by chance?" he asked.

"Yes, sir, Jonathan Kent," Jonathan supplied, ignoring the fact that he hadn't been addressed directly.

"Kent," the man repeated, mulling the name over. "Would I know your family?"

"Oh, I don't think you would. I don't imagine you get to Smallville too often."

"Smallville," he echoed, making the name sound like an awful dish he once ordered by mistake in a foreign restaurant. "It's a quaint rural area," he amended. "A strapping boy like yourself must have a plethora of chickens to attend to." The off-the-cuff joke fell flat and continued its descent through the pit in Martha's stomach. For a second, Jonathan's gaze flicked over to her, then back to her father again.

"Dad..."

"Actually, it's not the chickens you have to worry about. It's the bull," Jonathan deadpanned, squaring his shoulders just a little.

Mr. Clark seemed satisfied that he had gleaned all relevant information from the conversation and had spent as much time as he cared to on the matter. "So--Jonathan was it?" He straightened and raised a dubious brow while he clasped both of his hands together. "I hope you don't mind, but I haven't seen my daughter in a long while, so I can drive her home. I'm sure you have cows to corral or some such thing."

A tense pause stretched between the two men.

"It's fine."

The curt answer held no bitterness, but she knew Jonathan was upset and trying hard not to show it. She tried to catch his eye but he either would not or could not look in her direction now. Facing straight ahead and blinking several times, he muttered a polite "Good-bye" then turned on his heels and started to walk away.

Not a great many things surprised Martha. Being a lawyer's daughter, she had been taught to anticipate every possible outcome, to analyze a situation and predict several conclusions, but you could have tipped her over with one finger at that moment. He was just going to leave? Without another word?

"Jonathan, wait!"

Her father caught her by the arm, saying something about getting home to mom. Martha pulled loose from his grasp and scrambled after Jonathan, finally catching up with him just outside building. "Jonathan, wait, please."

His brisk walk slowed. Then he stopped and took a visible breath but didn't turn around. "Why didn't you tell him?" he asked calmly, the question laced with the hurt he still couldn't hide, despite wanting to.

"I don't know," she lied and looked down again.

He turned and smiled mirthlessly. "I've um," he swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat, "I've got cattle to 'rustle up,' as us country folk say. I'll see you later."

TBC...


	5. part 5

Martha stared out of the window of her father's '80 Mercedes as it rode along the streets of Metropolis, stopping at the odd traffic light every now and then. She might have enjoyed the urban scenery of skyscrapers and city sidewalks if she weren't so furious she couldn't speak for fear of what might spill out.

"Martha, don't sulk. It's not very ladylike," he father commented from the driver's seat while he fiddled with the stereo knob, turning it back and forth.

Maybe it was the afternoon and the fact that he had shown how small-minded and crass he could really be outside the circle of his blue-blood business partners and snobbish associates. What he had done to Jonathan had been nothing short of malicious and it made her stomach turn. She could still see the look on Jonathan's face before he left, and closed her eyes briefly against it.

Maybe it was knowing that the man she left behind would never have made her feel the way she did right then--sick with disappointment and cold with the knowledge that her father hadn't the time nor the inclination to ask about her feelings, only to correct her flaws.

Or maybe she had finally had enough.

Whatever the reason, Martha couldn't remain quiet any longer. "How could you, dad?" she grumbled angrily from beside him, scooting further to one side, positioning herself as far from him as possible.

"How could I what? Change the station? I'll put it back if you like."

Unbelievable. Either the man was incredibly obtuse, or he had even less humanity coursing through his veins she had ever realized. "How could you talk to Jonathan like that? You were dismissive and cruel," she shot back, looking directly at him this time.

Her father kept his eyes on the road and tapped the brakes, causing a whine from the car as they approached another light. "Truth isn't cruel, Martha, it's simply a statement of fact. And the truth is, a boy like that is beneath you. Believe me, I did you a favor," he replied as casually as though he were giving her the day's weather forecast.

"Beneath me?" She couldn't believe what she was hearing. "How would you know that? You don't know anything about him!"

"That wasn't my doing, was it? If your Jonathan were much to speak of, you would have. Now let's drop the matter."

Martha wanted to scream, to tell him that he had no right to say such things, but his last statement cut short the impending outburst and left her baffled as to what to say next. If she told him the truth about her reasons for secrecy, it would only make everything worse. So, she bit her lip and said nothing. But there was one person who needed to hear them.

-----

Every road in this town looked the same. And apparently there were no such things as road signs. As Martha recalled, the direction given to her were: " Big yellow place. Twenty miles through the corn and five down past the Ross place," which, evidently could be identified by "the two big Shepherd mutts roaming the fence line." With directions like that, it was a good extra hour before she pulled under the large wooden sign that read "Kent Farm," and parked, then opened the door to step out.

A cow mooing somewhere in the distance some time later called her attention to the fact that she was still sitting in the car.

She had thought of calling, but had decided that if she didn't give Jonathan the courtesy of speaking to him face to face after what happened the day before, then she was no better than her father. Only, now that she was actually here, she had to wonder what she hoped to accomplish by any of this. He wouldn't want to see her.

"Excuse me, dear, are you lost?" Martha jumped at the voice and jerked her head around to find a blond woman in a pair of overalls and a sunhat peering down at her through the car window.

Martha hurriedly got out of the vehicle and closed the door, nearly tripping over her own two feet in the process. "No. No, actually, I was lost several times before I found the right place," she stammered and caught her breath. "Mrs. Kent?"

"Why, yes," the woman agreed with a smile, adjusting her hat to a better look at her visitor. "And who might you be?"

"I'm Martha Clark. I was just--"

"Martha--oh honey, it's so nice to finally meet you!" Mrs. Kent exclaimed. "Jonathan talks about you all the time. I'm sorry you had such trouble finding the place. I do wish Jonathan had told us you were coming. Look at me. I'm a mess," she complained with a smile still in her voice as she swiped at her work clothes, then offered her hand. "I'm Jessica Kent, Jonathan's mother, but I'm sure you guessed that."

"Yes, ma'am." Martha forced an answering smile despite her mounting self-reproach. "Jonathan always has such nice things to say about you and your husband. I'm glad to finally meet you, too."

"Oh, well, thank, you sweetheart," Jessica said happily. She looked past the house toward the barn off in the distance and frowned. "That boy of mine, I swear sometimes I don't know what goes through his head. I thought I taught him better manners than that--having you drive out here all by yourself. He's out at the barn doing some cutting. I'll get him."

"Uh--actually, Mrs. Kent, Jonathan didn't know I was coming here. I kind of needed to talk to him about something. Do you think it would be okay if I went myself?" Whether it was woman's intuition or a mother's sixth sense--or perhaps it was Martha's own guilt that gave her the impression--Mrs.. Kent seemed to experience about three emotions in just as many seconds--surprise, concern, then understanding.

"So that's why the wood chopping took an extra hour last night," she said knowingly. "It's usually his least favorite chore. The barn's right around there, honey. I'll just leave you two alone."

"Thank you, Mrs. Kent." And Martha was thankful. It would have been easy for a mother to ask a lot of questions, to make presumptions, but Mrs. Kent did neither. 

"Oh, and Martha, why don't you both come inside and have some lunch when you're done with your talk? I'll see you in a bit." The two exchanged one last smile before Martha headed off, glad that at least one of them was sure she would be able to make good on the offer.

The sound of a buzz-saw led the rest of the way to the large red structure where she peeked around one of the doors to find Jonathan hunched over a workbench, cutting several planks of wood. Sawdust covered the floor at his feet and the burnt smell of freshly cut lumber lingered heavily about. She took a step forward then back again, worrying her fingers over the grain of rough wood along the entrance. While she stood silently watching, he flipped a switch and the grating sound of the saw eventually died. He removed the work goggles he had been wearing and tiredly wiped his face with a towel that had been laying on the table beside him, then tilted his head back, apparently enjoying the cool December air.

"Jonathan."

He spun around at the sound of her voice and regarded her with a mixture of surprise, hope, and a small amount of trepidation. "Martha, what are you doing here?" Both hands fell to his front, still holding the towel between them, and she took a few tentative steps in his direction.

"I was in the neighborhood? Well, after stopping four times for directions and passing the same goat six more times."

The beginnings of a smile had started to show, but he seemed to catch himself and refocused his attention on his hands, methodically wiping them with the towel while he spoke. "Was there something you wanted?"

She swallowed and crossed the rest of the space between them. "I wanted to talk about yesterday. My father was so awful to you, Jonathan, and I'm so sorry. I know what you must think, but I need you to know that my not telling my father about us has nothing to do with how I feel about you. Well, that's not exactly true, but it doesn't mean what you probably thought. It's not about that."

Damn it, this wasn't the way she had rehearsed it in her head, and now she had started to sound about as articulate as a child who'd taken the microphone at a public function and wouldn't give it back to the grown-ups. His uncharacteristically straight-faced expression didn't help matters.

"What I mean is," she tried again, "I didn't tell my dad about you because I knew what he would have to say, and I didn't want to listen. I knew he wouldn't approve. He would want me to stop seeing you...and I couldn't do that."

Jonathan's eyes were steady on her now, but he said nothing.

"I should have told him. I know. You're right," she went on, as though he had actually given an answer. "He should know how I feel about you. It's nothing to hide. I made a mistake." She took his hand and added shakily, "I love you, Jonathan, and I'm so sorry that I hurt you."

He only continued to stare, and for a moment Martha worried that he either hadn't been listening or didn't care for what she had to say. In the next breath, though, he was holding her, his chin resting in its usual place atop her head. "That's all I wanted to hear," he said quietly, his own voice unsteady.

A muffled laugh-sob soaked into his cotton shirt as she rested her head against his warm chest and stroked idly at the fabric there. "You could have jumped in any time, you know."

"I thought I stood a much better chance letting you do all the talking," he teased, falling easily back into their usual banter. "But there is one thing you should probably know, though..." He paused, leaning back to get a clear view of her face, and studied it closely, then licked his lips. "...I love you, too."

"You better," she informed him with a grin and pulled him into a long and heated kiss.

"You think you can just walk in here and have your way with me? What kind of man do you take me for?" He smiled down at her, his arms still loosely circled around her.

" My kind...no matter what my father says."

TBC...


	6. Part 6

"Jess, whose car is out front?" Hiram Kent shuffled into the kitchen, letting the screen door slam behind him while he continued to the sink to wash his hands.

"Hiram, honey, we have a guest." Mrs. Kent stood at the kitchen counter putting away the last of the dishes and inclined her head toward the kitchen table where Jonathan and Martha both sat finishing their sandwiches. "This is Martha."

"You mean she's real?" Hiram looked over at Martha and squinted as if he suspected her to be only a trick of the eyes. "I thought he just needed a reason to sneak off on Saturday nights." The man wasn't serious, of course, and it was clear where Jonathan got his sense of humor from. "Hi, Martha. I'm Hiram Kent. It's good to meet you," he said amiably, drying his hands with a dish rag and tossing it in the sink. "Jon-boy tells us you're studying to be a lawyer, is that right?"

Martha could see Jonathan cringe from the corner of her eye. She raised an eyebrow at the name and took a sip of milk from her glass in an attempt to hide her amusement.

"Jonathan, Dad," he corrected, then turned to Martha. "My grade school teachers called me the Walton kid for years." Judging from his expression, he didn't find that fact nearly as funny as she did so she decided to give him a helping hand.

"Yes, that's right, Mr. Kent, but I haven't really made up my mind yet."

"Well, you're young. You don't have to have it made up yet, just as long as you have a good mind to do your decidin' with," Hiram reassured her. "Jonathan"-- the name was emphasized to make clear that it was said in lieu of another-- "also says you live in Metropolis. This all must seem pretty different to you, I would imagine."

"Different, yes, but in a good way. It's truly beautiful here...and if someone mugs you in Smallville, you can just call his mother when you get home."

A rather undignified but happy snort came from Jonathan's direction.

"Brains and a sense of humor. You better hold on to this one, kiddo," Mr. Kent remarked cheerfully, strolling up behind his son's chair and gripping the back of it. "Oh, son, I hate to break up you and your lady friend here, but I need your help unloading the feed. It won't take too long. Do you mind if I steal him from you for bit, Martha? I promise I'll return him just the way I got him...If you consider that a good thing," he added with a wink and a slap on his son's shoulder.

"Oh no, not at all. Go right ahead."

Jonathan cast Martha one more questioning look to be sure she honestly didn't mind. Satisfied that she was comfortable being left there without him, he stood and picked up both their plates and took them to the sink. "As long as you're sure."

"You boys go and do whatever you have to do. Martha and I will be fine, won't we dear?" said Mrs. Kent.

"Yes, ma'am."

"All right, well, you girls have fun. Time, tide, and the bill collector wait for no man," called Mr. Kent, stopping only to kiss his wife on the way out.

Martha still sat sipping her milk when Jonathan walked back to where she sat and gave her an unexpected in-front-of-mother peck on the cheek. "I'll be right back," he told her, then grabbed a peanut butter cookie from a plate at the center of the table, took a bite, and trotted off after his father, leaving the slam of the screen door in his wake.

"Jonathan and his father aren't as different as I thought they would be."

Somehow the signals that sent words to one's brain versus one's mouth must have gotten crossed because what she had meant as a private thought had actually been spoken out loud. Her eyes darted to Mrs. Kent to gauge her reaction. Luckily, the woman just smiled wisely and replied, "Don't let either of them hear you say that."

---

Jonathan's shoulders stooped slightly under the heavy sacks of grain he carried. He shrugged them off onto the ground inside the barn with a flop and headed back for more. Normally he took his time but that afternoon his steps were a little quicker, despite his load being a great deal heavier.

"Hey, boy, I know you're young and invincible and all, but take it easy. You could do yourself an injury that way." Hiram carried a sack of his own but moved only half as fast while walking back to the barn.

Jonathan spared a short glance in the man's direction before tossing the next load to the ground, dragging a hand across his forehead, and huffing a determined, "I'm fine."

"Son, she's not going anywhere. You don't have to worry."

Jonathan dropped the next two sacks to the ground. It was just a simple observation on his father's part, but it had gotten his attention. He straightened and put his hands on his hips.

"What?"

"Martha is fine spending some time with your mom. Slow down before you hurt yourself."

Some of the tension eased from Jonathan's shoulders. His hands fell back at his sides as he walked back over to the flatbed of the Kent truck, then heaved another two sacks over his right shoulder. "I know that. I just want to get done, that's all," Jonathan panted, marching off toward the barn once again.

"Was there something else on your mind?"

"What could be on my mind?" The reply had been dismissively flippant, but old habits were hard to break. Frequently, Jonathan would still have to remind himself that things were expected to be different now. He and his father were both trying to piece together some semblance of a pleasant father-son relationship. They were getting along.

"Well, I'm sure I don't know. That's generally why a man asks questions, to get answers."

"I don't have a problem, dad," Jonathan answered wearily, still dutifully making the trek to and from the barn with sacks in tow.

Hiram grabbed the last of the sacks of feed. "I never said you had a problem." He dropped the bag at the door of the barn and ran a hand through his gray-white hair. "I was just wondering what had you so... " His thought was finished by a vague but sweeping hand gesture that indicated Jonathan's generally subdued demeanor.

Jonathan took a ragged breath and resigned himself to the fact that this conversation wasn't going to end without some kind of confession or another. "Look, dad," he sighed, ambling toward the older Kent and shoving his hands in his pockets. "I'm just a little stressed, all right. I have a lot to do--a lot on my mind." He paused and his tone gentled. "I appreciate your concern. I do, but...There's nothing you can do, okay?"

Hiram said nothing, but the many lines that had appeared over the years, some of which Jonathan had probably put there himself, seemed deeper, his face more tired. His son's reluctance to say anything more had clearly disappointed him, possibly even hurt him, but Hiram had never been the person Jonathan confided in--not as a child, the one that waited for promised things that never came; and not as the young man who grew up quicker than either had expected and didn't ask for promises anymore.

"If we're done here, I'm going inside."

----

"He really did that?" Martha rested her chin on her folded hands and stared at Jonathan's mother in disbelief.

"Oh, yes. His father had a fit, but Jonathan was determined. Once he sets his mind to something, it's not an easy thing to change." Mrs. Kent poured herself a glass of lemonade and sat across the table from Martha. "He said if football could pay twenty times what he made, then he was a fool to let the opportunity go by. Of course, he didn't use those exact words, but that was the gist of it. He was always a gifted player, though, ever since he was a child. I think he was throwing a football before he could walk." A fondness for the memories danced in the woman's eyes. Her finger circled lazily around the rim of glass in front of her.

"So what happened?"

She looked thoughtfully down at the drink she hadn't sipped yet. "He came back not a week later, said he didn't make the cut. He didn't say much else when he got back, but he did his chores without complaint. Hiram just pretended he never left, but I know he was happy to have him around the house again."

Martha got the distinct feeling there was more to the story, but before she could press the matter, the screen door swung open and Jonathan's work-shoes tromped loudly across the hardwood kitchen floor.

"So what have you ladies been up to?" he asked brightly, with the exuberant snap of a towel he grabbed off the counter to wipe his hands.

"Your mom's been filling me in on what an interesting year you've had. How come you never told me you tried out for the Sharks?"

He blinked a few times, eyes shifting to his mother and back to Martha then tried to cover his obvious surprise with a quick laugh and a cough. "I guess there wasn't much to tell. I went. I saw. I fell on my face," he joked. "Mom, have you been in here telling stories about me this whole time? This may be the last time I leave the two of you alone together." His mock sternness only sent them into giggles.

Martha folded her arms on the table and smiled. "Well, I did enjoy the one about the first time you sat on Santa's knee."

Jonathan's eyes widened in horror and the towel he was holding dropped to the floor. "Mom!"

Mrs. Kent just waved dismissively at her son. "Oh, honey, it happens to plenty of boys and girls. Mr. McCann is still Santa every year, you know. In fact, I saw him just this last Wednesday. He said to say hi."

"Jess, stop embarrassing the poor boy." Hiram came in and stood beside the table with the two women, taking in the sight of a very red-faced Jonathan , and shook his head. "It wouldn't have happened in the first place, if you hadn't let him drink your whole soda." He took a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped the beads of sweat from his face.

"Martha, would you like to see the farm?" Jonathan asked, louder than necessary and crossing his arms as if that might hold back the onslaught of embarrassing childhood antic dotes. "Please."

She looked from one of his parents to the other, then at Jonathan's pleading expression, carefully considering her options: Time alone with her handsome young man or stories that could prove highly entertaining and possibly useful in the future. Deciding one was far less cruel, she got up from her seat. "I'd love to," she said, and politely excused herself.

"Thank God," he muttered quietly, and picked up the towel he'd dropped, placing it back on the counter. He already had a guiding hand on her shoulder when Mr. Kent called out to him.

"Jon-b...Jonathan. I would still like to talk to you later, when you have the time."

By then, Jonathan's arm was around her. He looked quickly over his shoulder and replied, "Sure thing," then practically pulled her out the door.

TBC...


	7. Part 7

-----

"This is where we keep the livestock." Martha and Jonathan leaned against the wood fencing that went on for what seemed like miles and observed the large, slow-moving herds of bovine chewing lazily on thick blades of grass.

"Aw, look at that one. He's so little." She pointed to a small brown and white calf with an odd-shaped marking over his forehead. He seemed lost and wandering, looking for a safe place to settle and rest.

"Him? He was born two days ago. His mother died. I've been trying to bottle feed him but he doesn't seem to like it very much."

"Oh, how sad. What's his name?"

"Well, sweetheart, beef cattle don't usually have names, as a general rule. It makes it harder to, um...." He made a cutting gesture across his throat with his index finger.

"That's terrible," she gasped. For a second, he might as well have said, "Yes, I shot Bambi's mother, and I liked it, too." An apologetic lift of his eyebrow was all he could offer at first. She must have looked as mortified as she sounded, though, because he glanced back at the little animal and appeared to be studying him closely.

"I'm afraid that's part of what we do, but..." He paused and watched the little one trotting back and forth. "I tell you what, though. If you want, you can have that little fella," he said, nodding toward the small calf.

Of course, now Martha felt beyond silly. Farmers didn't raise cows as pets, for goodness' sake. She knew that, but seeing that little one out there and so helpless, it just seemed so cruel. She peeked up from under half-lowered lids. "You'd really do that?"

Jonathan scraped at the dirt with his foot and gripped the fence, looking down at the ground. "Sure I would."

"Really?" She was grinning now, nearly giddy. "You won't...? You know."

He looked up from the spot he'd been focusing on and shook his head, happy to have pleased her. "You can name him anything you want," he said, squinting against the bright afternoon sun.

Martha pursed her lips and cocked her head to one side as she thought seriously on the matter. "I've--I've never had a cow before. I'm not exactly sure what to--well, it is Christmas time so it should probably be fitting to the occasion," she reasoned and tapped her finger against her lips. All at once it came to her. "Joseph."

"First, I should point out that technically your 'cow' is a bull. You wouldn't want to give him a complex," he kidded. "And second" --now it was Jonathan's turn to sound dubious-- "...Joseph?"

"He was given a great blessing at Christmas, right? And I'd say our little friend's been blessed, wouldn't you?"

"I guess he has at that," he agreed, resting an arm over the fence. "Joseph it is." He put his other arm around her again. "Do you wanna feed him?"

"Could I?" Not that she had ever fed a calf before either, but how hard could it really be? He was such a dear-looking little thing. She just wanted to grab him up and take him home. Her father would have a stroke at the thought, though, and they couldn't exactly keep him in the living room. But what a conversation starter that would be.

"Just give me a minute to get him out for you." Jonathan grabbed up a small rope and halter off a nail by the gate, ducked through a space in the fence, and jogged off toward the calf. A few strides short of the animal, his jog lessened to a walk. Martha watched as the calf sniffed tentatively at the man before him, his ears pinned close to his head, until apparently finally deciding he recalled the scent and had no fear of it. Jonathan ran a reassuring hand along the animal's side, then slipped the halter easily into place.

Joseph tossed his head in objection, stamped his front hoof to drive the point home, and stood firmly in place. A light tap at his hindquarters had no effect except causing his nostrils to flare. Another more firm tap had him reconsidering his choices, and he finally stumbled forward, keeping pace with his keeper.

"He hasn't exactly gotten the concept of cooperation yet," Jonathan explained as he approached the gate and eased it open, his little companion following close behind. "But he's learning. We'll take him back to the barn and feed him. Eventually he'll get the idea that food and people go together."

Martha squatted down to look the young calf in the eye and put out her hand, only to have him throw his head and take a step back. "It's okay," she whispered and tried again. His nostrils quivered but he didn't withdraw.

The skin just above his lip was velvety soft. Hot breath puffed in and out of his little nose. Jonathan continued to stroke him along his oversized ears while she petted the length of his face. Suddenly, he let out a meek but hearty cry. Jonathan smiled. "He says hi."

----

"Calves have to consume a tenth of their bodyweight each day, but they also need to build up their immunity to fight off viruses and infections. They usually get that from their mothers. Our little Joe here doesn't have that advantage, and for some reason none of the other females have taken to him."

Martha sat on the end of a couple of bales of hay inside the barn, holding the rope that dangled just under her young calf's chin, watching him flick his tail back and forth from time to time. She listened carefully as Jonathan explained all the meticulous care involved with the animal and was glad that he didn't make her feel out of place. She wasn't a "clueless city girl" being hand-held through the process, just a girl whose boyfriend happened to know a lot about cows and enjoyed discussing them with her.

"So," he went on, "we have to make sure he gets enough nutrition to keep him healthy." He screwed the cap on the large bottle he had been preparing and gave it a shake then handed it to her. "There you go."

"How do I...?"

"Here." He stepped behind her, sat straddling the bales of hay, and slipped his arms under hers. Holding the bottle near the bottom while she held the middle, he squeezed until a droplet of milk dribbled onto the calf's lower lip. A curious little tongue lapped up the white liquid and eagerly saught more.

"Whoa." Jonathan's left arm slid reflexively around her middle, trying to balance them both, while their little friend shoved and pushed closer to his food source, till finally suckling greedily at the rubber nipple presented to him. "I guess he likes it after all."

"Oh my," she laughed, and Jonathan relaxed his hold but kept his arm where it was.

Little Joseph happily guzzled down his lunch. When he'd finally downed the last drop, he nosed the bottle and adamantly voiced his disappointment.

"Hey now, little guy, you'll just have to get more later," Jonathan told the impatient young beast and placed the bottle on the ground next to him--which the animal proceeded to knock over, still searching for that extra bit of milk. Later evidently didn't suit him.

Later. Late. Oh no. Martha looked down at her watch. "Oh, Jonathan, I didn't realize what time it was. I'm sorry. I have to go."

He held her more snugly and made a dissatisfied noise in the back of his throat, then traced his nose along the soft line of her neck. "Are you sure?" he mumbled. Joseph raised his head and mooed loudly, flipping his ears forward and back. "You see? He wants you to stay."

She grinned and leaned back into his embrace."I'd like to stay, too, but I promised my parents I'd be home for dinner tonight and it's a long drive back."

With a an unhappy sigh, he relented and helped her to her feet. "I really wish you didn't have to drive all that way alone."

"I'll be fine," she assured him. But the small wrinkle in his forehead, the one that only appeared when something worrisome was on his mind, had already begun to show. "I promise. I'll call as soon as I get home. I should go say good-bye to your mom and dad." Jonathan relaxed a little, nodded, and secured Joseph's lead rope to a post.

"He'll be okay here for a little while," he explained. Martha gave the calf one last pat before she and Jonathan started walking back toward the house.

It was funny how life worked out sometimes. Just hours before, she had walked the same path alone and for such different reasons. This time, he was there beside her. There was something inherently right about that. As though reading her thoughts, he took her hand. "I'm glad you came."

"Me too..." A small, knowing smile touched her lips--then spread to a wicked grin. "...Jon-boy."

She took off at a run, giggling madly, with Jonathan in close pursuit. "Hey! ...You come back here! Martha Clark, when I catch you...!" He would catch her when they reached the house, but by then it was exactly what she wanted.

TBC...


	8. part 8

"Oh, Bill dear, I think you're making entirely too much of this. So she has a boyfriend. It's not as though they've announced marriage."

"Don't even joke about such a thing. God knows what they've been up to all this time, right under our noses."

Quite certain she had heard enough, Martha pushed open the door of their large study to face her mother and father, each of whom were dressed for an evening that would undoubtedly include generous gratuity and conversation that was less so. From what little she had heard during her short stint in the hallway, her father was convinced his little cherub had been corrupted by no less than Lucifer himself.

"Martha, where have you been?" he asked, his words clipped.

The sharpness in William Clark's tone was just as it had been when she was a child and had broken the crystal vase that once sat upon the mantle over the fireplace to her left. All at once, she was five again, trying to hide broken fragments under the rug.

She swallowed, her eyes focused on his, but her words were faint. "I went to see Jonathan."

"Smallville Jonathan? That Jonathan? That's where you've been all this time?" At her brief nod, he turned to her mother, threw up his hands, and pointed an accusing finger in her direction. "You see? What did I tell you? The entire thing was probably his idea, her gallivanting about the countryside--"

"I went to apologize to him. Someone needed to," she announced matter-of-factly -interrupting what was most likely to be the verbal equivalent of a mule's backside-and crossed her arms, more bold.

"Bill, what is she talking about?"

He took three steps in Martha's direction, bent forward at the waist, hands on his hips. "I don't need you to do any apologizing for me, young lady, least of all to some hayseed from Smallville, Kansas trying to get a few rungs higher in life using my daughter. And since when do you use that tone with your father?"

Martha flung her hands down and balled them into tight fists, furious. "Since my father started behaving like someone else! I'm not going to dinner," she said brusquely, not bothering to wait for a response before whirling around and marching heatedly out of the room.

---

"Hey, Jon-boy, you got that minute? I know they're hard to come by around here."

Jonathan was stooping down, fastening new hinges on the stall doors with the same screwdriver that he had used for what must have been thousands of other repairs around the Kent farm. "One or two," he replied, not paying full attention to the conversation as he continued to work.

"I wanted to talk to you about--well, about a lot of things. Um..." Hiram took a seat on the old workbench behind him, bowed his head, hands touched together at the fingertips as though in prayer. Jonathan hadn't yet looked up from his task. "Son, things aren't going so great with the farm."

Not taking notice of the gruff, troubled tone, still busily replacing old parts with new, Jonathan answered glibly, "The place has never been a cash cow, dad. No pun intended." He chuckled a bit at his own humor, but his laughter died when, finally, he looked up and caught sight of his father, hunched forward, face in his hands, looking frail and defeated under the soft light cast from an overhead lamp.

The screwdriver dropped to the ground. "Dad, what is it?"

"You're a good boy, Jonathan. I know you spend a lot of time here when you'd rather be someplace--anyplace else. I know that," Hiram repeated, as though concerned his son might not have believed it the first time, and rubbed a hand lightly over his brow. "I suppose I can't blame you-I-I just always-it was never about money. It was about looking out that kitchen window day after day and knowing that my father and I had built those fences out there together. Mama wanted a storybook house, with a pretty white fence." He drifted off into the distant memory, then shook his head. "It was about working the land. Making something in this world, instead of tearing it down or selling out to the highest bidder."

Neither father nor son would ever claim to be an authority on the other, or even remotely well-acquainted in recent years, but if there was one thing Jonathan knew about Hiram Kent, it was that this was not him. The father he knew would have come in here, rolled up his sleeves, and pitched in beside him with a word or two about the news, grades, or other things that needed to be done that day. He would have complained about the never-ending length of their bank statements and the unerring shortage of daylight hours.

But this? No. This was not his father.

Jonathan placed a hesitant hand to the man's left shoulder. "If there's something wrong..." he urged, unease rising in his chest and seeping into his belly.

Hiram turned away, looked down, then up again, facing his son. He cleared his throat with a half-laugh and dropped his hands into his lap. "Your dad's being a sentimental fool, Jonathan. I just wanted you to know that I appreciate all the long hours you've spent keeping an old man's dream afloat."

Sentiment wasn't something either normally did well. Having it thrust prominently between them like an extravagantly wrapped gift, when all you've brought to the party is a dime-store card, left the younger man groping blindly for a response. "Dad ...before, when I said I had a lot to do, I didn't mean..."

"I know you didn't." Hiram shrugged off any further conversation on the matter, got to his feet, placed a friendly arm around his son's shoulders, unsure and awkward with the gesture but genuine with its intent. "Don't you worry about this," he said, referring to the repairs. "It'll hold till tomorrow." They walked out of the barn together.

"So...Martha seems like quite a girl."

"Yes, she is," young Jonathan agreed proudly, allowing the inner child that still craved his father's approval to tiptoe out of the corner he'd been left in for so many years. The tension of earlier faded to a reverent peace that settled in the soft reflection of his eyes. "She's-" He paused thoughtfully, searching for just the right description before finally settling on "special."

"Ah. I know the feeling," the elder Kent reminisced, as they strolled along, an arm still hugged around his son's shoulders.

The sun eased its way slowly from the evening sky, taking its time as it dipped beneath the dark horizon; the Kent men were sharing something more than hellos, and it seemed as if even the heavens above were sitting up and taking notice.

TBC...


	9. part 9

There comes a time in a person's life when she has to shed her ill-fitting, sheltered adolescence--much like an old coat that once fit just right and kept you warm and protected against the world's harshest elements but, then, outgrown, became uncomfortably constricting and of little use.

For Martha Clark, that time was now.

It just took walking halfway to her car to realize it.

There she stood, keys in hand, fuming over what her father's wild accusations--and yet she hadn't really tried to change anything, had she? She hadn't told him he was wrong, hadn't told him much at all before storming out. If anything, she was running away--again. The irony of it all. At nineteen, she could argue some of the top minds around into a fix, leaving them bewildered and shuffling their little note cards. Yet here she was, out in the cold, debating with herself about all the things she should have said.

She spent a little longer studying the ground, then shoved her keys back into he coat pocket, and strode hurriedly back toward the house. Her father met her at the door.

"I knew you'd come to your senses," he said confidently. "Now come inside and change so we can get going and forget all of this silly business."

"I'm not forgetting anything, dad. I want you to apologize to Jonathan."

He blinked a few times, more astonished than confused. "I'm sorry...are you...are you giving me a directive?" He adjusted his coat, tugging at the lapels as though it might make him appear more formidable. "I think you must have forgotten to whom you are speaking. The last time I checked, I was the parent here."

"I know who I'm speaking to, and I know that if Jonathan is not welcome in your home then neither am I." The authority she managed probably surprised them both.

His disbelieving laughter might have continued had her stern face not made the lack of humor abundantly clear. "Martha," he gasped. "You're joking. You couldn't possibly mean..."

"Oh, I'm very serious. This isn't just about Jonathan, dad. This is about you trusting my judgment, and if you can't do that, if you plan on controlling every decision I make for the rest my life, then I think I have a few priorities to rearrange."

At his wounded expression, she lowered her eyes. "I love you, dad, but you can't live my life for me. You've lived your life on your own terms. You've made your choices. You can't make mine, too. I have to make my own. Jonathan is a wonderful man. You'd know that if you gave him half a chance."

He considered her words, then nodded. "You're right. I can't make your choices for you, but you are my daughter, and I want what's best for you. Do you honestly believe that this small-town boy with his even smaller future is the best you can do?'

It wasn't exactly water into wine, but at least he was listening. A sudden surge of self-assurance prodded her on. "He's not just 'the best I could do.' You always said you could tell a lot about a man by what he keeps closest to him. Or did you mean how much money? Jonathan works hard, very hard. And he's been there for me when I've needed him. If you expect me to follow the advice you give, maybe you should try following it yourself. I just want you to give him a chance. Is that so much to ask?"

"No, I suppose it isn't," he conceded, with only a small grain of humility. "Look, why don't you tell Jonathan to come by my office for a few minutes tomorrow. Let me get a good look at this young man, all right?"

"You promise you'll be fair to him?" she asked, suspicious.

"Of course," he said, a little too agreeably, before he took her arm and they started back inside.

----

"He wants me to what?"

Martha made her way to her chair at the other side of the table and set her books down. The library was even more bustling than usual. Students drifted by, bookbags slung over one shoulder, the look of weary dread that always accompanied pre-holiday exams screwed firmly onto their faces. Jonathan wore that same expression, but with different cause. "Come on, Jonathan, he just wants to start over, get to know you better. I think it's a good sign."

"Of the apocalypse, maybe," he replied, his lips set in a grim line as he dropped his books next to hers.

"I know how you feel but-"

"No," he interrupted, drawing out the word for effect. "My father likes you. He's probably already naming his grandchildren as we speak." He took a seat, pulled his glasses from his shirt pocket, and hooked them over his ears.

Martha sat across from him, her long skirt tucked neatly under her legs as she flipped haphazardly through pages of text, not really looking for one in particular. "My father will like you, too, once he knows you the way I do."

Jonathan looked up at her, his incredulous stare saying what he did not.

"All right, maybe not exactly the way I do, but-" There was a but in here somewhere. She just had to find it. "-but he'll see what a great person you are."

He glanced in her direction, adjusted his glasses, and shrugged. "All right," he sighed. "If it's that important to you, I'll go. But if I come back missing an appendage, I hold you responsible."

"Jonathan." The disapproval with which she said his name had become a gauge one could use to judge how well they had negotiated a pressing issue as of late. Last week, bored and looking for any diversion that came into his mind, he'd asked whether, technically, it would be more correct to spell woman with a "b" since it made more sense that they were "man with womb"-- to which she had rolled the name and her eyes, telling him to stop his procrastinating and finish his article summary on women in American history.

"Okay," he sighed heavily, "I'll be good."

-----

The office was purely functional, with very little frill, but neatly kept. Numerous plaques decorated the walls. Three filing cabinets and several book-filled shelves stood to his right. But there were no plants, no touches of home, no ornamental pieces, save for the single family photo that sat cattycorner on the large oak desk at the center of the room.

"Jonathan. Have a seat. I'm glad you could make it on such short notice. I see your attire is, for the most part, unchanged, though. Denim must be the keystone of your wardrobe," the older man observed as he strolled past and sat behind the desk between them.

" I do have to go straight to work after leaving here, and I won't have time to change," Jonathan explained, tugging self-consciously at his shirt-cuffs before sitting in the obscenely over-cushioned business chair to his left. A few quick glances surveyed the room for all possible exits, then darted back to the man in front of him.

"Oh, yes, a working man. Well, that's a start. What exactly do you do?"

"Well, sir, I help to run my family's farm, and when I'm not doing that, I'm at school or my part-time job, which is really just a paycheck at the moment."

"But you still find time to see my daughter."

The comment was more an accusation than a statement. But then, Jonathan was no fool. He knew that whatever the reasons William Clark had given his daughter, this meeting was about more than pleasantries and general social etiquette. He had just hoped to be wrong.

"Yes, sir, I do," he answered evenly and shifted slightly in his seat. "There are things in life you make time for, when they're important enough."

If Mr. Clark was aware of his discomfort, he gave no indication--only sat back in his chair, folded his hands together, and touched them thoughtfully to his chin. "And you plan to continue to do so?"

"Yes, sir."

"I see. Well, I suppose I can't blame you. Martha is a remarkable young lady. Any man would be a fool not to recognize that."

Jonathan nodded and some of the tautness that had crept its way up his spine and across his back began to ease out of his shoulders. For a brief moment, he thought perhaps there was a chance that they could find some common ground.

"But-you would agree that sometimes even the best intentioned individuals aren't always the most compatible people, would you not?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"Take Martha and yourself, for example. You seem like a decent enough fellow and yet, where will you be ten years from now? On a farm, working dawn to dusk while she did what? Gardened, barefoot and pregnant?"

"Martha--she-- she can-- I would want her to do whatever made her happy."

"In Smallville? Tell me, what plethora of opportunities have you come across in your quaint little community? Do you really believe she would be happy playing housewife or taking odd jobs here and there? How long do you think it would be before she grew bored and resentful toward the man that brought her there to waste her life away? Hypothetically," he quickly amended.

Jonathan straightened and mustered what composure he could manage. "Hypothetically, I think whatever Martha chooses to do with her life, it's her decision to make. And whatever I may or may not be doing, it will be something I'm proud to put my name to. That's something I can promise you."

If looks could freeze, Jonathan would have surely been in serious danger of frostbite just then. William Clark had probably been "put in his place" by very few people, and most likely never by someone who wasn't old enough to order a stiff scotch over legal papers.

"That may be, young man, but it's a funny thing about choices, though. They're not always right." Weighted quiet hung in the air before,"Well, if you will excuse me, I do have business to attend to. It was good to officially meet you--after all this time," he added coolly. He stood and circled to the front of the table, then offered an obligatory hand, which Jonathan viewed with as much enthusiasm as one would a dirtied handkerchief, and reluctantly grasped.

"Thank you for your time."

TBC...


	10. part 10

Eight-thirty. Martha watched the clock more closely, as though that might change the fact, but the evil thing wouldn't compromise an inch. It was eight-thirty, and she hadn't heard from Jonathan or her father. The latter wasn't unusual. Business dinners weren't uncommon. But Jonathan? She'd been certain he would have called by now.

She sat on the sofa in the study, next to the phone, and pretended to be uninterested in the object of her concern. Of course, she could call him, but that might give the wrong impression. Besides, if she didn't talk to him tonight, she would see him tomorrow, and she could survive until then. Right? That theory was well on its way to being tested when she realized she wasn't alone anymore.

"Martha, honey, I'm sure everything is fine." Her mother was standing in the doorway and made her way over to the couch. "Your dad may be stubborn, but he's fair," she said gently, sitting and placing a hand on her daughter's knee. Martha looked down at her mother's hand, but found little comfort in it.

"A few days ago I would have believed that, but I'm not sure anymore, mom."

Sarah Clark looked sympathetically at her daughter. "You know he's always been so protective of you. I'm afraid that comes along with being an only child, but it doesn't mean he's not trying. No father wants to lose his daughter, and no boy is ever good enough. You might as well know that right now, darling."

She shook her head but didn't look up.

"I'll talk to your father. Maybe I can lead him off the war path," her mother said encouragingly. "In the meantime, how about letting this young Mr. Kent show his face around here?"

Martha finally smiled, grateful for the kindness with which her mother spoke of the man she'd never actually met. Her mom had yet to say much else, really, except that she was sure Jonathan must be quite something to have gotten her father so out of sorts. And even though she never said it out loud, Martha suspected that her mother was a true romantic at heart. At least she had one ally she could count on.

"Thanks, mom. I know Jonathan would thank you, too, if he were here."

"You know, you never did mention how the two of you met."

"Well, it wasn't really a big deal. I just asked to borrow his finance notes, and he said 'yes.'"

That was almost the end of that particular avenue of thought until Sarah's eyes narrowed. "Wait. Weren't you the note-taker for that class?"

Martha blinked a few times and opened her mouth to respond, but at precisely that moment, the phone rang. She grabbed for it--nearly knocking it to the floor.

"Hello?"

Jonathan's "Hey, sweetheart," was audible to both women. She looked back at her mother who mouthed: "I think I'll go," then tiptoed out the door, closing it behind her.

"Hey, I was just thinking about you."

"I'm always thinking about you."

She could almost hear his impish grin as she cradled the phone closer to her ear and settled more contentedly into the sofa, offering her best sultry, "Really?"

His answering light but hearty laughter told her he enjoyed her willingness to play. "Oh yeah, in fact, I'm doing it right now."

She smiled, forgetting for a moment that he couldn't see the reaction, then laughed and added an eager, "So how did everything go?"

"It went fine."

Okay, that might have fooled some people, but her well-trained ear hadn't missed the half-second pause and the tad too-happy pitch in his voice that was a fair indicator that he was hiding something. She sat forward and twirled the phone cord around one finger.

"What did he do?"

The blunt seriousness of her question caught him off guard, and the line went quiet for a few moments. "Nothing. We just discussed some things." His nonchalance only raised her suspicions further.

"Things," she repeated flatly. "What kind of things?"

"You worry too much, you know that?"

Redirection. Ah, she knew it well. What law student didn't? It came right after the sections on jury sympathy and the artful use of reasonable doubt. She herself was a master of the technique. And she was certain that she had detected a hint of tell-tale reluctance from him.

The truth was, he couldn't hide something from her any better than she could from him, but he seemed more or less unscathed by the day's events. She supposed that was enough to be thankful for.

"I'm just making sure all body parts are accounted for--all ten fingers, all ten toes," she said, allowing the levity back into the conversation.

"Oh. Wait. Hold on, let me check." She laughed again at the sound of the phone actually being set down. A few rustling noises later and his voice returned. "All present and accounted for," he reported. "Hey listen, I was um...I was thinking. You know Christmas is next Thursday, and I was thinking maybe Wednesday, you could come over for dinner--if you don't have other plans."

That was a quick change in topic, wasn't it? But she surrendered to it. Christmas was one of her favorite times of the year, ever since she had been a little girl. The lights, the music, the way that for one month everyone was just a little bit nicer to their fellow man. The world seemed just a little more cozy, like sitting around a crackling fire on a cool winter's night. And this year, for her, it could be even better.

"Well, actually, my parents celebrate on Christmas Day so my Christmas Eve is open. But won't your parents mind? I don't want to be an imposition."

There was more soft laughter. "Are you kidding? My mom makes enough food for ten people--besides, I already asked her about it, and she said she'd love for you to come. I'm sure the two of you will find time to sneak off and discuss any number of my embarrassing childhood traumas," he joked. "Then there's Little Joe. He may begin to feel neglected if you're not here, you know. So will you come?"

"Little Joe? Mr. 'Don't call me Jon-boy'? You're nicknaming my poor, innocent calf after a character from Bonanza?"

"You could say that--or you could say: 'Yes, Jonathan, I'd love to come. '"

She giggled helplessly. "Yes, I'd love to come."

----

"Hey, dad? Do we need anything else for Wednesday?"

"No, son, we're set," Hiram answered, weary of the question. "Your ma's already preparing the vegetables. If you really want something to do, you could go on in there and snap some peas to make sure they're all the exact same size," he added drolly.

Jonathan hopped down from the truck and looked back at the farm house, apparently giving the matter some serious thought. Hiram Kent chuckled to himself and rolled his eyes. "We don't need a thing, son. Stop fretting so much and get over here."

He shot his father an annoyed look, sure the man was taking far too much pleasure in his son's personal torture. "I just want everything to be nice," he said crisply, and grabbed a bale of hay from the back.

"It will be. Besides, I hardly think that dinner is the reason she's coming all this way."

Jonathan stopped and took a step back but said nothing. After a moment of thought, he continued toward the barn again. When he returned for another bale, he still had the same pensive expression. All at once, he dropped the bundle and blurted out, "What do you think about Martha and me?"

Hiram stared back at his son, slightly confused. "I told you, I think she's a very nice girl."

Jonathan frowned. "No, that's not what I mean. I mean--" He struggled, searching for what it was he wanted to say-- "I mean, do you believe two people who come from different backgrounds can still be happy together? Or would their differences eventually get in the way?"

The older man put his hands on his hips and studied his boy. "Well now, I suppose that depends on the people," he began cautiously. "For some, they don't like change and can't ever get past it. For others, change is a street to be traveled like any other road in life. If you're asking me which one of those people I think Martha is, well, I'd guess her to be a traveler. But then, you would know better than I would, I suspect."

Jonathan took the information and examined it carefully, turning it over in his mind, this way and that. "So you think we could make it work."

Hiram nodded. "If you have a mind to. Every relationship has its challenges. Nobody's life is perfect, Jon-boy, but if you work at it, if you're sure of what you want, nine times out of ten you can work things out."

That received a lopsided half smile. "I think so, too." Surprisingly, when the two weren't in the heat of a bitter argument about school, football, or the farm, his father could actually offer valuable insight. A bale of hay gripped in both hands, the younger man hesitated a second, then two, and dropped it to the ground. "Thanks, dad," he said hurriedly, followed by a quick pat on the back and grip around the shoulders-- a reaction which obviously surprised his father.

"Oh, go on." Hiram shrugged off the affection with a self-conscious grunt. "It's about time you realized I've got more between my ears than the wind. Why don't you go on in the house. I'll finish this up. I wouldn't want anything to be out of place when your lady friend gets here. It's a whole two days away, after all. Go tell your ma I'll be in shortly."

Jonathan grinned and yanked off his work gloves, shoving them in his back pocket. He sprinted toward the house, leaving a smiling Hiram looking proudly after him.

---

"Drop that cookie." His mother spoke firmly, pointing a commanding finger at her son. Jonathan, who had been moments away from sinking his teeth into the peanut butter snack he held in his hand, dropped it back onto the plate with a disappointed face that could have given any three year old a run for his money.

"Just one?"

"No, sir. Where's your dad?"

"He's finishing up outside. He should be in soon." He sat himself at the kitchen table and rested his chin in one hand while absently tracing imaginary designs on the wood with the other. "Do you need any help?"

Jessica Kent didn't looked up from the bowl she stood over, slicing celery with a deft hand. "I'm doing just fine, thank you," she said happily. Jonathan had thought that would be her only comment until she added, "Have you spoken to Martha today?" Her attempt at seemingly completely casual conversation might have been successful, except that he could see the slight upward turn of her lips.

Mothers. Always so enamored of their boys' love lives-- or maybe that was just his mother.

"Yeah, I'm gonna pick her up Wednesday afternoon."

"Any special plans?" she asked, trying to sound just as uninterested as before and only managing to be less convincing.

Jonathan, whose gaze had drifted while he thought of the days to come, turned his head in her direction, and watched as she pretended to be more interested in celery than his response. "I suppose so," he said, sounding just as distant.

For the first time since the start of their conversation, Jessica looked up at her son. "All right. I can take a hint. I'm not one to pry," she replied innocently.

"You, mother? Of course not." That got him a well directed scruff of the hair as she passed by. He chuckled and leaned backward in his chair, setting it on its back legs.

"Oh, you. Go hurry your father along, smarty pants," she scolded teasingly and returned to her work. He smiled again, with a mischievous glint, and snatched a cookie from the plate on the table before he left.

It was almost dark. With one hand, he guided the screen door open and stepped outside. "Dad?"

The only sounds to answer him were the beginning chirps of the night creatures and the call of the many farm animals in the distance. "Dad, are you out here?" He ventured further out toward the barn but stopped when he saw the truck--only the truck, with one bale of hay still sitting in the back. An uneasy twinge pricked the edge of his consciousness. His father would never leave a job undone...

"Dad?"

His steps quickened, then stopped short when a prone form became visible just beside the vehicle. "Dad!"

Suddenly his feet couldn't carry him fast enough.


	11. Part 11

Martha reached the top of the stairs, walked over to the door to her left and rapped on it softly.

"Jonathan?"

Getting no answer, she turned the knob and let herself inside. He was there, standing in front of a dresser mirror in his black suit, working at the tie he had still been trying to master when she'd left to answer the phone a short while ago.

"That was the pastor. He wanted to send his regards before the service this afternoon."

"I'll have to thank him when I see him later."

He hadn't looked at her, but kept his attention on the mirror in front of him, still working the fabric around his neck and growing frustrated with it. A few steps and she was in front of him.

"Here, let me do that," she said quietly and took the tie in her hands.

The wall was still there-that something that had always made his feelings so plain and open to the world had been tucked away, a stoic emptiness left in its place. For a second, though, the facade of cool composure gave way to gentle appreciation that showed through the shadows that hung low in his eyes.

"It's been a while since I've done this," she thought aloud, hoping, in part, to remind him of happier times.

"And you're still better at it than me," he commented, almost amused as he looked down at her.

She smiled a little and gave the tie one last tug. "Better?" He looked to the mirror again and nodded.

It was difficult to know what to do. She had offered more than once to run errands, to take care of odds and ends. Each time he politely refused. Everyone deals with grief in his own way. She understood. But it was the quiet calm of it that unnerved her, like the calm before a dark and wailing storm, and she found herself bracing for the downpour.

"Your mom is in the kitchen looking over some papers...Jonathan, I know I've said this before but-if you ever need to talk or anything, you know you can talk to me, right?"

He looked down and mumbled at the floor, while fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt. "My father died, Martha. Had a stroke. Nothing's going to change that."

"I know that," she answered cautiously, "I'm just worried about you. You've been so quiet and I thought-"

"I'm okay. Really," was softer, more insistent. But no more convincing. His eyes finally settled on hers, and he looked as if he might yield to the concern in them. Then, as though realizing his misstep, he looked away and to the floor again. "Can you, uh...can you go tell my mom I'm almost ready?"

For some reason, as much as part of him wanted to accept what comfort she tried to give, another part of him was determined to push it away.

Trying to move mountains was a foolish and futile endeavor. The natural course of time and elements erodes even the most unyielding of them.

"All right."

She laid her hand along his face and kept it there until his body let go of some of the tension it carried, her soothing touch like a thin thread drawing him downward and closer until he bent low enough to receive her kiss on the cheek. "I love you," she murmured, before slipping away and out of the room.

-

In truth, Martha hadn't really considered the others- the people Hiram Kent had touched throughout his life- but there were many. They arrived at the gravesite, one after the other, offering their condolences, then later their stories of friendship and days well spent.

Jonathan spoke last.

He stood and walked slowly to the front, with shoulders squared, cleared his throat and adjusted his coat against a chilling breeze. "I didn't know my father as well as some of you. If I were being honest, probably not as well as most of you." He paused and took a breath. "But I do know that he would have humbled by what I see here today... Then he probably would have said that there were much better things for all of you to be doing on a Sunday afternoon than standing around here-to get home and watch the Sharks game."

Murmurs of agreement and tearful laughter wafted over the gathering and faded.

"But we're here," he said, an almost inaudible break in his voice. He paused again and swallowed. "I remember once, when I was nine years old, I asked my dad if I could ride my bike to the Rosses' place. He said 'no.' I, of course, at nine believed I knew it all and complained loudly that nothing could possibly happen. He was being unfair. We lived in Smallville, not Metropolis. He looked down at me and he calmly replied, 'That's true enough, but you also just happen to live in my house, and in the land of Kent you're still a boy until you can speak your piece like a man.' I always hated that- that he seemed to have an answer for everything and it was never the one I wanted to hear. " He ducked his face down and for a brief second, she couldn't be certain, but it looked as though he'd said something else. When he looked up again, though, he spoke loud and clear. "I wish I were half as smart as I thought I was then. Then maybe I would understand why this had to happen. We've all lost a great man. And the world, a world that needs good men, will never be the same without him... "

-

"If anyone wants anything, I'm making some tea."

Jonathan didn't respond to his mother's offer as he shed the coat he hadn't bothered to remove all day and let it drop into a crumpled heap on the living room chair. Martha didn't think to answer either, just followed his movements, not taking her eyes from him. It wasn't likely that she would discern anymore than she already had, but there was still the dim hope that, though not able to move the mountain, she could somehow traverse it.

"It's after nine. Martha, honey, I think you should stay the night."

At that, Martha did turn around. "Oh, no. Mrs. Kent, I wouldn't dream of...I don't-"

"Mom's right, sweetheart. It's late. I'd feel better about it if you stayed. You can take my room. I'll sleep here," Jonathan offered tiredly, dropping down onto the couch, looking as though whatever invisible support had held him up thus far had been suddenly yanked from under him.

It was also the first time he'd said much since the funeral that morning, aside from the obligatory thank-yous that were automatic when someone had approached him and offered their condolences. She had spoken to him through touch-taking his arm and offering a gentle squeeze or stroking lightly at the nape of his neck, to which he responded with the same quiet thankfulness that had showed in the softened features of his face earlier that morning. But he'd remained rather quiet and hadn't asked for anything. Until now. A short glance in Jessica Kent's direction told Martha she wasn't the only one to notice.

"Okay," she said gingerly, "I'll just call home, let my mom know where I am."

Her father was out of town again, so that at least wouldn't be an issue. He would probably have driven there to get her himself he'd known.

"Go ahead and use the phone in the kitchen, dear. Jonathan, why don't you go on up and get a change of clothes?" He said something about being right down and wandered up the stairs, more from memory than actual consciousness of them.

Like her son, Mrs. Kent put on a brave face, but was less successful. Her grief followed close behind her like a shadow in the late afternoon sun as they walked into the kitchen. "Why don't I make the tea, Mrs. Kent?"

"Oh no, that's all right. It's good to have something to do."

As much as Martha liked to think of herself as an adult, worldly and knowledgeable of many things, she found herself keenly aware of being only nineteen.

"H-how long were you and Mr. Kent married?" No, she shouldn't have said that. It was too soon to talk about...

"This year was our thirty-fourth," Mrs. Kent responded, taking a teapot down from the cabinet, filling it with water, and placing it on the stove. Emotion still colored her words as she spoke, but she seemed glad for the conversation. "I knew he was the one for me the minute I laid eyes on him. It was my first day at Smallville High and I had lost my way. I must have made a sad sight wandering the halls. He came over to me and said 'Excuse me, miss. I wonder if you might need a helping hand.' Other boys, they might have taken the opportunity to talk about themselves, try to be clever, but he didn't. He just smiled and seemed happy to do what he could. Not because he expected anything but just because it was the nice thing to do, you know?"

"Yes, I do," Martha said, reflectively, while reaching over and taking a teabag from the box beside her and handing it to the woman next to her.

"Jonathan was such a surprise," Mrs. Kent continued as she twirled the string of the bag distractedly around her finger. "We didn't think we would ever have children...and then one day the doctor told us that I didn't have the stomach flu after all. Hiram was so excited. He dragged me into that truck every time I so much as sneezed. There wasn't a prouder father around the day Jonathan was born." Retelling the story, it was the first time she'd really smiled in days. But it didn't last. She turned back to the sink. "Listen to me, chattering on. You go ahead and call your mother. I'm sure she's worried about you."

Martha started to reach a hand out, but pulled it back. "Yes, ma'am," she said quietly.

Jonathan reappeared at the kitchen entrance, barefoot and dressed in a white cotton t-shirt and loose-fitting gray sweatpants. "Hey, ladies."

The crash of the teapot and steaming water spilling across the kitchen floor sent him grabbing the nearest towel.

"Mom? Martha? Are you okay?"

Martha nodded that she was all right and picked up the teapot that still lay on the floor. Mrs. Kent stared at the mess, her hand over her mouth, stricken. "Oh, my God. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to do that. It's just, for a second you sounded so much like...I'll-I'll get it," she said, reaching for a second towel that sat on the counter.

"It's okay, mom. I've got it," Jonathan said assuredly, not looking up as he knelt down and began to wipe up the large puddle of water.

"Come on, Mrs. Kent," Martha said gently, putting her arm around the woman this time and guiding her toward the living room. "Jonathan will take care of that." She looked back over her shoulder as they walked away, to see a very weary Jonathan stooped over the spreading pool, the fingers of one hand pinched at the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed.

"Everything will be all right."

TBC...


	12. Part 12

Her eyes blinked open, taking a second or two to adjust to the darkness. The disorientation of waking in someone else's bed lasted only a short time, until she breathed in the scent that was uniquely Jonathan. It still clung to the much too large shirt she had barrowed to sleep in: the light fragrance of Old Spice he wore only on occasion but that still seemed to linger in his clothes, the soapy smell of a fresh shower, mixed with something else all his own. Martha savored its familiarity once more, then sat up, and looked about the shadowed corners of the room.

Something wasn't right.

A nagging pang of something she could not quite place, but was nonetheless persistent, had stirred her from a dreamless sleep. Her feet were on the floor, her hands gathering together the extra top blanket around her shoulders before she really had any idea of where she might be going.

The clock on the wall downstairs chimed one.

Moonlight spilled across the hard floor and cast the kitchen in an eerie, silvery glow as she took each step, one by one. What was warm and welcoming in the daylight now seemed bleak and unfamiliar in the shroud of night. Cautiously, she rounded the corner into the living room and peered over the back of the couch...to find a discarded blanket draped off the end, bunched at the floor.

Where was Jonathan?

She blinked a few more times and rubbed at her eyes, as if that might cause him to appear. The feeling that had drawn her this far quickly turned to alarmuntil the movement of a shadow across the front window caught her eye. The front porch light was still on, and the dark form paced back and forth once more, then stopped. Martha tiptoed noiselessly across the room, slowly eased open the front door, and looked out...

Then exhaled a relieved breath.

Jonathan was standing at the far end of the porch, leaning forward over the rail, resting his weight on his forearms, and staring thoughtfully off into the expanse of starry sky.

"Couldn't sleep?" she asked, taking a step outside.

He turned his head and raised an eyebrow at her unexpected appearance. "I could ask you the same," he said matter-of-factly.

"You could," she agreed, coming up beside him, almost brushing against his shoulder. They stayed that way for a while.

"It's quiet out here, gives a person a chance to think," he said, after a long silence. Her hand wandered along the back of his shoulder, making small, comforting circles.

"We could lose the farm, Martha."

She stopped and stared blankly at him, waiting for some kind of amendment or qualification. He avoided looking directly at her, instead focusing on the night view. "My father knew it, and he never told me."

That wasn't what she was expecting to hear, and she mentally stumbled a little before answering, "Maybe he didn't want to worry you."

Jonathan didn't respond at first, but it was obvious his thoughts were far from the scenery. Then he shook his head, both hands tightening into fists.

"He should have said something...This is just like him," he muttered harshly. "Always thinking he can handle everything himself. Why does he have to be so damn stubborn?"

But the anger ebbed just as quickly as it had risen when he realized he was still speaking of his father in the present tense. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'll be okay, but what about mom? It would kill her to leave this place. All these years, all this work, and she's worse off than she was the day they were married," he sighed, turning his eyes to the ground, shoulders slumped.

"I'm sure she doesn't see it that way."

"Maybe not, but..." Clearly, he was about to argue the point, but thought twice, straightened and looked back at her, a peculiar expression on his face. Then it was gone, and he placed a guiding arm around her shoulder. "...It's getting cold. We should go inside."

She would look back on that moment later and wish that she had stayed right where she stood.

"Mrs. Kent, I hope you don't mind my cooking breakfast." Martha offered an awkward smile to the older woman who came into the kitchen in search of the source of the aroma of coffee. No matter if both women knew the reason, wearing only Jonathan's shirt and the robe he had gotten for her earlier still felt unseemly somehow. "Jonathan's been out and about for hours now, and I wanted to make myself useful."

"Don't be silly. Make yourself right at home. It's early, though. I hope you didn't think you had to be up with the sun like the rest of us." Mrs. Kent poured herself a cup of coffee and stood at the counter next to her.

"No." Martha thought for a second about how much to say on the subject and decided on "I was already awake."

The woman nodded and took a sip of her coffee. "Well, I'm glad Jonathan had some company. Maybe he'll talk to more than just that little calf out there."

Martha tried not to show her surprise as she stirred the sugar into her own coffee, but it must have been apparent. "Oh, he doesn't think I know. I'd bet he hasn't had more than four hours sleep combined in the last few nights. He keeps so much inside. I'm afraid that's one trait I wish he hadn't gotten from Hiram."

The mention of her husband was obviously difficult for her.

"And how are you doing?"

"I'm doing all right," Jessica answered vaguely, looking down at the floor, probably not believing it herself. "I guess I still half expect him to come wandering through that front door and ask me what all the fuss was about, that he just went to town for a while. When he doesn't, it's a little more real."

"I'm glad I got a chance to meet Mr. Kent," Martha said after a pause, not entirely certain why she had chosen to say that just then, but somehow glad she had.

Jessica Kent smiled. "I'm glad he got to meet you, too."

"Hey, farm-boy."

Jonathan turned, then took a second look at Martha who was dressed casually in jeans that were a little too big for her and a long-sleeve green shirt. "Your mom let me borrow some clothes," she explained, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious and nervously sweeping a strand of hair behind one ear. She hadn't thought about it, but he had never seen her dressed quite like that before. She'd been raised since the time she was born to dress and look a certain way, so aside from the rare occasion of rummaging through a friend's closet, jeans and the like weren't exactly abundant in her wardrobe.

His only reply was a short, almost dismissive "Oh." He stared a moment longer, then picked up another sack of feed and poured it into the feed bin along the fence.

"Well, umanyway, your mom wanted me to tell you that if you don't come in soon to eat, she's coming out here after you."

"I'll be in in a bit."

His back was to her again, and he hadn't bothered to look up from his chore. She was about to say more when she was interrupted by a long, squeaky cry. Over in the corner, Little Joe made it known that he was not at all happy with not being the center of attention, and came moseying toward her.

"Joseph," she said brightly, walking up to the fence to pet her calf. He happily flipped his ears forward and back while she stroked him, as if to say: "It's about time you noticed me." "Someone's been taking very good care of you," she observed, and his tail swished in agreement. Martha glanced over at Jonathan, who was pretending not to listen.

"Look how big you've gotten," she crooned, as though she was talking to a nephew she hadn't seen in several years. "And aren't you just the handsomest thing? I haven't been a very good mom, have I? It's a good thing you have such a good dad." The last thought was out of her mouth before she could stop it. She looked over again at Jonathan, who was still diligently working and not looking at her.

"Tell my mom I'll be in shortly, okay?"

One last pat and she stood and wiped her hands on the front of her jeans. "Okay," she replied softly, wondering to herself if her foot could have possibly fit any further into her mouth. She hesitated a step, looking back once more, then started back toward the house.

When Jonathan did finally come in for breakfast, he barely said two words before he took a seat at the kitchen table and picked up the morning paper.

"Martha, honey, everything looks very good, thank you," Jessica remarked, to which Jonathan dropped the edge of his paper and looked about the table.

"You cooked?" he asked, surprised.

Between school and work, the only things he ever seemed to have time to eat were sandwiches and a quick apple. And when they went out, he'd always insisted on providing the meal, so this was the first time she'd really had the opportunity to cook for him. Looking at the mounds of eggs, bacon and fruit, she wondered if perhaps she had gone a little overboard.

"It's the least I could do," she said modestly, scooting in her chair. She wasn't sure exactly what she expected him to say, but what she certainly did not expect was the look of a man who'd suddenly lost his appetite.

He swallowed uncomfortably and cleared his throat. "Oh, uh, you know what? Um, I forgot about the fence that came down in the north pasture. I still have a lot to do. I think I'll have something later." He got up from his chair, pushed it in, and dropped the paper onto the table.

"Jonathan" Mrs. Kent tried to interject.

"I really have to get this done. Excuse me," he said quickly and headed hastily to the door.

"Jonathan Richard Kent," his mother called after him. The slam of a closed screen door was the only answer she received.

Martha pushed out her chair and walked out into the yard after him, having to almost jog to keep up with his long, hurried strides. "What did I do?"

"You didn't do anything," he replied flatly, keeping his fast pace, eyes averted to the field ahead of him.

"Well, then I don't understand. Last night you wanted me to stay and today you act as if you can barely stand to look at me. I was only trying to do something nice for you and you just" her right hand gestured back behind them.

He stopped abruptly and rounded on her, inches from her face, almost causing her to stumble. "I don't want you to do anything for me!" he shouted, his towering form almost frightening, its shadow looming large and dark over her, as she stared back, wide-eyed. Though she knew he would never hurt her, the sheer shock alone was enough to send her back a few steps.

At her reaction, he instantly shrank back himself, and the consuming fire of anger receded into the blue of his eyes, replaced with immediate regret.

"Then maybe I should go home," she said calmly, despite the tears gathered at the corners of her own eyes.

Jonathan placed his hands on his hips and studied the ground. "Yeah, maybe you should."

TBC...


	13. Part 13

After taking some time to compose herself and give the matter full consideration, Martha realized something. She wasn't going to run away again, not this time, not from Jonathan. If the mountain wasn't coming to her, she was going to go to the mountain. Whether the mountain liked it or not.

"Or..."

Jonathan's head jerked up. "Or? What 'or'?"

Without so much as another word, she marched off toward the unopened bags of feed that still lay next to the fence.

"Or what?" he tried again, more urgently, as if she weren't completely ignoring him. Now it was his turn to stumble and try to keep up as she walked faster. She still didn't answer, but as she walked he must have realized her plan, though she hadn't completely thought it out herself yet.

"Oh, no. No-no-no-no-no. Didn't you hear what I said? I don't want your help," he informed her sternly.

"I heard what you said," she answered, still calm, and kept walking. By the time she reached the sacks of feed, he'd become completely flustered.

"Martha Clark, you stop right there," he demanded.

She lifted a bag.

"Don't you--you c--if you take another--Martha, come on. Those bags weigh at least forty pounds. You could hurt yourself," he sighed helplessly, finally giving up any pretense of having any control at all over the situation.

"I'm doing just fine, thanks." Even if she was taking twice as long as Jonathan to do the same job. That wasn't the point.

"Martha..."

She prepared herself for still more complaints and objections--but what she hadn't been prepared for was the very girlish shriek that escaped her when her feet unexpectedly left the ground while the sack she held was dropped there with a heavy thud. "Jonathan! Jonathan, you put me down right this instant!"

"I'm sorry, what? I don't think I got that last part," he announced loudly over her protests and squirming, his arms wrapped securely around her waist.

"Jonathan Kent, you put me down, do you hear me!"

There was a good chance he might've done just that, too, eventually, had her struggling not managed to shift his center of balance, causing him to step back and fall, sending them both to the ground in a heap. Martha wriggled her way around just enough to turn onto her stomach and face Jonathan, who was lying on his back, panting. Then he did something he hadn't done in a very long time.

He laughed.

Sitting up and blowing a wild strand of hair from her face, still breathing hard herself, Martha joined him. "You do know how to sweep a girl off her feet."

He started laughing again, more freely this time. But when she stopped for breath, grinning down at him, she saw that some of the humor had faded from his eyes. Jonathan managed the beginnings of one more chuckle before it trailed off to a nervous swallow. It took a full second longer for her to realize what had already become evident to him: She was sitting in the crook of his hips, leaning forward, her face again inches from his, but in a very different way from before.

His breathing slowed and deepened as he watched her, his eyes never leaving her while the fingers of his right hand reached up and touched lightly along the soft skin of her cheek. She closed her eyes and felt his warm breath over her mouth, then his lips on hers as he pulled her more fully against him. When Martha touched his face and opened her eyes again, she froze.

"What's wrong?" Jonathan asked, sitting up on his elbows, alarmed at her troubled expression.

"You're crying," she whispered, still staring.

"I am not," he protested, almost chuckling again at the suggestion.

"Jonathan..." As she sat back on her heels and said his name in that certain way, she ran her thumb over the trail of tears that ran down his face. He wiped the back of his hand over his cheek and looked disbelievingly at the wetness there.

"It's okay," she tried to assure him, only to have him swipe more roughly at his damp cheeks and try to stand. She moved to the side at once to oblige him, fully expecting to go chasing him across town and back this time.

But he just stood there, looking lost, like a man who'd run as far as he could and had nowhere left to go.

He hadn't cried, not once since his father's death, and certainly not in front of her. As embarrassed and confused as he must have been at that moment, it took every ounce of her being not to put her arms around him and hold on tight until he'd given up this foolish male pride of his.

Then again, maybe there are times when pride is all that stands between a man and the most broken version of himself.

"Come on," she said caringly, and took him by the arm to lead him home. "Let's go have breakfast."

xxxxxxxx

"Overnight? You let her stay overnight?"

Sarah Clark turned from the mirror she'd been primping in, putting on the diamond earrings her husband had bought her for her birthday last month and rolled her eyes at him. "Oh, Bill, the poor boy's father just died. What exactly were you worried would happen?"

"I sympathize with that fact, Sarah," he grumbled. "But that doesn't mean the rules have suddenly changed. We would never have allowed her to stay overnight with any boy four months ago. Jonathan Kent is not an exception."

Sarah crossed the room to grab her purse from the chair in the corner, giving her husband's diatribe about as much attention as she would a bothersome gnat that flitted around her head. "Honey, Martha's a smart girl with a good head on her shoulders. And it's not as if they were alone. I spoke with his mother and she seemed like a lovely woman."

"You know that isn't the point."

She turned and cast him the same half-tired, half-irritated look as when he'd leave his wet socks on the bathroom floor. "Then what is the point? Honestly, I'd like to know."

"The point is," he said, keeping his voice low, walking over to her, "I don't think it's appropriate. Boys that age are all hormones and hands, Sarah."

"Especially after their father's funeral," she finished, openly mocking the absurd notion.

"You are not helping--and taking this far too lightly, I might add," he complained, crossing his arms in front, the frown he'd been wearing all morning deepening into a scowl.

"No, dear. That's not true. I'm just not overreacting. There's a difference," she corrected him, while rumaging through the purse she'd picked up. "Martha's found a nice boy that she cares about. I think it's wonderful. She practically glows whenever she mentions his name."

"Well, fine," he groaned, exasperated with her feminine sentiment. "I thought eventually you'd see things my way, but obviously I was mistaken. I can see now that I'll have to handle this situation myself."

Sarah looked up at him sharply. "You do that, Bill. I'm sure that would be very helpful," she answered bitterly. "And don't forget to wave good-bye to our daughter after you've made a complete fool of yourself."

"Sarah--"

"This isn't one of your business deals. You can't maneuver the pieces and capture the queen. Just leave them alone," she pleaded. "Before you do something you can't undo." She held his gaze a second, then two, then grabbed the keys she finally spied on the dresser and walked out.

TBC...


	14. part 14

Martha's arm slid under Jonathan's and around his waist, a small effort to keep him close in some way while his mind drifted further toward a place she still couldn't seem to reach.

"I suppose I should get going after breakfast," she said, as they walked along together toward the house. "Both my parents will be home soon and they're probably starting to wonder. Will you be all right?" 

"Yeah," he replied, not giving the answer much apparent thought. He kept his head down, watching the ground pass underneath his feet as his arm came to rest across her shoulders. But even he must have realized how vague and feeble it sounded. "Yeah, I'm fine," he said again with more certainty, giving a quick nod.

Yes, of course he was. He was always fine. Martha had an idea that the world could shatter like broken glass around him and when asked about it, Jonathan Kent would be "fine." She worried at her lip and considered letting things lie before deciding she'd done more than enough of that.

"You don't seem fine, Jonathan," she said carefully and stopped their walk to look directly at him.

He didn't look up, and she thought perhaps he might avoid answering altogether until, finally, he raised his head and took a breath. "I..." He studied her eyes and blinked his own, slowly. "I...just..."

But before he could finish whatever it was he was about to say, the sound of a car rolling into the Kents' front yard brought his attention over her head. "Who's that?" he muttered, more to himself then to her, and squinted against the bright morning sun as he tried to make out the visitor. Martha pivoted and spotted the stranger stepping out of his car and heading up to the house with what appeared to be a briefcase at his side. Jonathan set off at a jog and she followed just behind him.

"Excuse me, can I help you?" he called as he approached.

"Maybe." The man stopped and extended a hand when he reached the front step. Jonathan took it, giving it a firm shake.

"I'm looking for Jessica Kent. My name is Harold Anderson. I'm from the bank." Despite the cool weather, he seemed uncomfortable in the gray suit he wore and tugged at his shirt collar.

"She's inside," Jonathan replied, his tone markedly less friendly. "I'm Jonathan Kent. What's your business here?"

After a nervous look up and down, the man shook his head and smiled weakly. "I'm afraid this is something only Mrs. Kent can help me with. If you'll excuse me," he said, attempting to pass.

Jonathan put a strong hand on his shoulder and blocked his way.

"Maybe you didn't understand the question the first time. What's this about?"

He was probably ten years younger than Mr. Anderson, but what he lacked in age, he made up for in stature, a fact not lost on either man as Jonathan moved closer and tightened his grip.

"I really, um," the man swallowed, "I really think I should speak to Mrs. Kent."

Martha placed a hand on Jonathan's arm. He looked over his shoulder at her, having forgotten for a second that she was still there. "He's not gonna go in there and upset her. Not today." He turned back and brought himself eye level with his unwelcome guest. "Why can't you people show some respect!" 

His hard glare and harsh words had their desired effect-- Anderson tried to back away, hoping to break the younger man's rough hold. Martha's hand stayed just where it was, though, patient. For several moments no one moved, breathed, then, reluctantly, Jonathan let go with a hard shove.

"Jonathan, don't," Martha whispered tensely.

"Hey! Look, I'm...I'm just doing my job," the man stammered. He set his briefcase at his feet and hastened to straighten his disheveled shirt, tucking it neatly back into his waistband and smoothing his coat.

"What's going on out here?"

Mrs. Kent stood with the front door open, surveying the scene in front of her, one hand still on the doorknob. Martha now had both hands on Jonathan's shoulders, speaking to him in hushed words. She'd only seen that kind of anger in him once before--when a certain inebriated gentleman had stumbled upon them--and she was only too aware that charged emotions plus available target could equal big trouble.

"Can I help you?" the older woman asked. From what she could see, it certainly appeared so.

"Mrs. Kent?" the man inquired, watching Jonathan warily from the corner of his eye as he spoke. She nodded. "Well, as I told this young man here, my name is Harold Anderson and I wanted to speak with you about, well, about some financial matters, if I may."

Jonathan tried again to intervene. "Don't worry about it, Mom. I'll get rid of this guy."

"You'll do no such thing. Come on in, Mr. Anderson," she said and stepped aside. With one more glance in Jonathan's direction, taking note of his still angry expression, Anderson made sure to keep his distance as he picked up his briefcase from the ground and started up the stairs.

xxxxxxxx

"As you know, Mrs. Kent, the bank has carried your husband for some time now and we just don't see the benefit of making any further investment at this time."

"I see." Mrs. Kent held the document but by then was only distantly aware of it. They had all sat and listened to the finer points of finance, which all boiled down to one thing--the farm had been losing more money than it was making and for too long. Now, there it was on paper, just in case anyone wasn't clear about it.

She shook her head from side to side, coming back to herself. "I knew things were bad, I just never imagined-" The words wouldn't come as the cold reality began to set in. Her voice nearly broke, but she'd managed to keep it steady while folding the paper and setting it back on the table. "How long do we have?"

"Thirty days," the man said simply, then glimpsed Jonathan over in the corner against the doorframe, arms crossed, one foot hooked over the other, brooding. "Maybe a little longer."

Martha watched him, too, from much closer, and put her hand at his back, traveling it up to his shoulder.

"That's not much time. There's--" Mrs. Kent cleared her throat, swallowing back the beginnings of tears. "There's so much to do."

Jonathan shifted restlessly in his spot, his teeth clenched.

"I know how you must feel," Anderson offered. "And I am sorry."

Jonathan opened his mouth to speak this time, but his mother responded first. "No, I don't think you are. I don't think you are at all," she said, keeping her composure. "And you don't know how I feel. I pray you never do. I think I'd like you to leave now."

"Mrs. Kent, I assure you, this is in no way--"

"I believe my mother asked you to leave." 

Martha looked apprehensively from one man to the other and could only hope that Anderson didn't need the farm he'd come to collect from to be dropped on top of him before he took the hint and made himself scarce.

"Thank you for coming by," Mrs. Kent added politely, probably catching the same tone from her son that Martha had, and got up from her seat.

Luckily, Anderson's suit wasn't the only smart thing about him, and he quickly gathered up his papers, reshuffled them, then put them inside his briefcase, and stood. "Yes, well, I apologize for taking up so much of your time. I wish you folks the best of luck." He forced an awkward smile, thought about putting out his hand, then dropped it by his side. "Good day."

When he was gone, the room went into motion again. Jonathan paced a few steps and Mrs. Kent pushed in her chair and started quietly upstairs.

"Mom." 

But she ignored her son's soft entreaty and continued up the steps.

The kitchen chair suffered the brunt of his frustration, the top half of it hitting the table, legs clattering loudly back onto the floor after being thrust furiously forward. 

Martha walked to his side again. She hadn't said anything, wouldn't know what to say, but he didn't seem to care that she didn't. Her closeness refocused his attention and his anger drained away, leaving only sadness in the softened contours of his face. 

Wordlessly, she put her arms around him and exhaled when she felt him relax just a little and hold her closer.

TBC...


	15. Part 15

"Hey, Jon-boy, you get down from there. Your ma would have your skin and mine, if she saw you."

Jonathan hopped down from the high-point of the new roof and moved cat-like over several planks to where his father crouched, hammering another section of wood. "Aw, mom's not even around. She's in the garden. She'd never know anyhow."

Hiram looked up from his work at his eleven-year-old son and shook his head at his boy's indifference. "A woman always knows, sooner or later. One day, when you're married, you'll find that out."

The boy crinkled his nose at the thought, not at all enamored of the idea of girls and even less of marriage. "Uh, I don't think so, dad."

Hiram laughed and slid another board into place. "I used to feel that way when I was your age. You wouldn't be here if I still did, though..." he added with a smirk.

Jonathan's mouth fell slightly open and his expression changed from one of mild aversion to looking as though he'd just been told he was having liver and spinach served to him in a single meal. "Dad! Gross! I don't wanna hear about that stuff."

"Well, excuse me," the man replied lightly, "I didn't mean to offend."

Jonathan shrugged and grumbled something about moms not being like real girls. Then he squatted in front of his father, trying to catch the man's eye as he worked. "How much longer are we gonna be?"

Hiram lifted his head briefly. "Gotta hot date?" He wiped his sleeve across his brow and continued his hammering.

"No," Jonathan replied sharply, annoyed at the teasing. "Just a game," he muttered to himself, too softly for anyone to hear.

Hiram sat back on his heels and wiped his brow again. "You know a farmer's day never ends. I expect I'll be busy 'til supper time. You finish your other chores yet?"

The boy stood and rolled his eyes. "Yes, dad," he groaned and began listing all the things he'd done that morning. He'd only gotten part way through when Hiram laid down the hammer, held up his hand and nodded.

"All right, son. All right," he answered, half smiling at his boy's browbeaten tone. "You go on and have yourself some fun. I'll just be a while longer." And he took up his hammer again.

Jonathan frowned and shoved his hands in pockets. He dropped his chin and tried not to show his disappointment, but it didn't change the fact that his father hadn't remembered again. Hadn't remembered or didn't find it of much importance. He had said before that games were games but his family couldn't live on them. Still, it didn't stop Jonathan from wishing that his father would surprise him and come to a game or practice just once. He'd promised one day he'd make the time, but so far that day hadn't come.

He brought his head up and cocked it to one side. "Dad...?"

"Yeah, son?"

Hiram still busily hammered and nailed, not looking up from his work.

"Nothing," the boy mumbled.

"Jonathan?"

Quietly, Martha crept up next to him and brushed at the lock of hair that fell across his forehead. There he was, sitting and sleeping soundly on a stack of hay, leaning to one side, resting against the barn wall. Her whisper hadn't awakened him, but he started at her touch and blinked several times before righting himself and staring back her, confused.

"I think you fell asleep," she told him. "It's no wonder. You must be exhausted."

Rubbing at his eyes and still not quite aware of where his was or what exactly he had been doing before that instant, Jonathan wondered briefly just how long he'd dozed off. Then he sat up straighter and rolled his shoulders, trying to work out a kink that had settled at the base of his neck.

"I was, um, I was just finishing up the stalls," he said hastily, taking hold of the rake handle that stood against the wall beside him.

"I can see that," she answered agreeably as she picked a stray piece of straw from his hair and dropped it to the dirt floor.

His side glance in her direction said he was sure she wasn't fooled for a second. He came forward, rested his weight on the wood handle, clasping both hands over the top of it, then nodded up at the ceiling. "Did I ever tell you that my father and I built this roof?"

"No. No, you didn't."

"I was only eleven and he did most of the work but he let me do a lot of things, too. It took weeks, just the two of us. Every day we'd climb up there and work for hours." A quiet melancholy seeped into the words as he spoke them, each more heavy than the last until they stopped entirely. Martha sat down beside him, put a hand at his knee.

"Don't give up just yet. It's not over."

He seemed surprised at her directness, but still doubtful. "Fifteen thousand dollars, Martha. I couldn't come up with that kind of money if the lives of everyone in Smallville depended on it. If I could, we wouldn't be having this conversation right now."

"You talk as if you're the only one involved in any of this. I could ask my father to help. He could..."

Jonathan got to his feet with a disbelieving huff, his back to her as he shook his head fervently at the idea. "No. No way. Your father already thinks I'm some ignorant hick from Loserville, Kansas. I am not about to go asking him or anyone else for a hand-out."

Martha stood and strode around to face him. "Who cares what he thinks? You'd pay it back and you'd get to keep the farm. Isn't that the most important thing?"

Jonathan crossed his arms and tried without success to find a suitable place to fix his gaze. "This was--is--my father's home," he explained slowly, carefully, so that she could not somehow misunderstand. "He never asked anyone for anything in his life. He was proud of the man he was, of what he did. No one looked down on him. This is his home," he said again. "And I am his son."

His eyes met hers briefly before he started past her and toward the open yard.

xxxxx

"What am I supposed to do, mom?"

Sarah Clark looked up at her daughter from the sofa and sighed with understanding. "Well, honey, if he doesn't want you to interfere, I really think it's best that you don't. A man's pride is a fragile thing."

That wasn't helpful. Nothing was what she'd been doing so far and it didn't seem to make things any better. "But there has to be something-" she started to protest in earnest.

"The only thing that you can do is be there for him, honey."

Martha dropped onto the sofa and let her head fall back with a dramatic flair. "I can't even do that. Every time I try, he acts like nothing's wrong. He can be so hard-headed."

"Welcome to my world," her mom said with a gentle smile and an arm around her shoulder. "The secret to dealing with a hard-headed man is knowing when to pick him up and when to let him find his own two feet...and every now and then, when to knock him on his behind."

They both giggled softly. "So I just wait?"

"For now."


	16. Chapter 16

Sunlight from a large, open window spilled across the text Martha studied at her desk while a subtle breeze flitted over the pages of her book. She rubbed at her eyes and looked harder, hoping somehow to force an answer to appear.

"Martha."

She didn't look up at her father's usual strong tone, but continued to keep her attention on the book in front of her. Mr. Clark moved a few steps closer and peered inquisitively over her shoulder.

"Well, I'm pleased to see you've gotten your priorities in order. It's good to see you so invested in your studies. I was beginning to worry." 

He reached down and took the book in one hand, perusing its pages. "Personal Finance? I thought you took this course last semester."

Martha wilted a little in her chair. She could lie, make up some plausible excuse, but being less than honest was what had gotten her in trouble with her father before. There was no since in making the same mistake twice.

"I did. I was just hoping to find something that might help Jonathan," she admitted. After all, even though she'd agreed to leave her father out of it, she hadn't promised not to help at all, had she?

"Jonathan."

Judging from his disdain, she might as well have said she'd decided drop out of school and join a covent, though he'd have probably found that preferable. "He's exactly the reason I wanted to speak to you."

She sighed heavily, put her fingers to her temple, and closed her eyes, awaiting the inevitable barrage of criticisms and disapproval.

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," he muttered wearily as he set the book back down on the table. "Listening never hurt anyone, you know. Even the president of our United States has his own personal advisors. He listens to those around him who have a better understanding of given situations. Surely you don't purport to be above the same. As the saying goes: 'A wise man learns from the mistakes of others. A fool learns only from his own.'" The tone he used now reminded her of when she was seven and he would lecture her about the importance of eating all of her vegetables to grow up healthy.

"Jonathan isn't a mistake, dad."

Her father took a seat at the edge of the desk, folded his arms pensively, and gazed out the picture window behind him. "In and of himself? No, of course not. Every man has a purpose."

"I'm sure he'd be comforted to know that," she answered, not attempting to mask her distaste for the discussion.

"--But he is a mistake for you," he pressed, ignoring the comment and focusing again on her. "Martha, you're an educated girl with every advantage at your fingertips. Don't be so easily blinded by storybook fairytales that claim love conquers all. That's all well and good until the bills are past due and you're out on the street. If your involvement with this farm-boy is-- "

"I thought you were honestly going to give him a chance, but that really is all you see, isn't it? Just a farmer." She shook her head sadly. "All your talk when I was growing up about men being equal, there being innate greatness in the human spirit--about judging a man by his character, you never believed any of it." 

Mr. Clark stood so quickly one would have thought he'd been burned . "Of course I did. I do. But we're not talking about the kind of man he is--"

"Isn't that what we -should- be talking about?" Her unexpected question coupled with its disappointment and hurt left her father at a loss, as Martha stood and picked up the book from her desk.

"I'm not a little girl, dad. I know how the real world works."

For a second, she thought he'd finally been rendered speechless on the subject, which suited her because as far as she was concerned the conversation was over. She was nearly out of the study door when he called from behind her.

"I don't want you seeing Jonathan Kent anymore."

She stopped and hugged the book close to her chest, a makeshift shield, but didn't face him. "I guess that's my mistake to make."

Xxxxxx

"Nell's been askin'about you."

Having finally finished unloading all the hay for the afternoon, Jonathan hopped up onto the back of the parked truck next to Ethan and caught his breath. "Has she? You can tell her I'm doing all right."

"Will do," the young man replied in the same off-handed manner, then cleared his throat. "Said she's sorry about not making it to the funeral…."

"I really hadn't thought about it."

Several cows mooed and the wind rustled through the nearby trees.

Nell. As teenage girlfriends went, Nell Potter had been decent enough. Pretty, outgoing, and fun. The problem was that it didn't matter who it was she had fun with, just so long as she could go along for the ride. A fact he'd learned the hard way. That she hadn't made someone else a priority was neither a surprise nor of any real consequence to him.

"Sooo, uh, speaking of the women in Jonathan Kent's life, how are things with Martha? You two seem to be getting pretty close."

"They're-- she's--they're good. "

If by good one meant she could ask him to move to Alaska to take up ice fishing and he'd at least learn the trade. But he wasn't about to admit that to Ethan. They were just social friends, buddies--that and the guy was about as deep as a mason jar. But he did make the effort to stop by.

"Thanks for all your help here, by the way," he said, stripping off his work gloves and setting them aside while changing the subject. 

Ethan flinched at the friendly sarcasm and shrugged with a sheepish grin. "What can I say, I'm not built for hard labor like some people," he joked. "I'm more the spectator kind of guy."

The wind picked up some and Jonathan buttoned his shirt a few buttons higher, hiding more of the work-hardened physique underneath. "Ha-Ha," he grumbled, smiling more out of obligation than humor. "Working outdoors might do you some good, you know, give some color to that desk-job pale complexion of yours."

"Hey, I may be a pasty white boy, but I'm a pasty white boy with a pretty hefty checkbook. Money trumps muscle, pretty boy. You only wish you had it."

Ethan nearly laughed before realizing from the expression on his friend's face that those might not have been the best choice of words. "Hey, I--I didn't mean anything by that. I was just kiddin'around. Sometimes my mouth runs before my brain walks. I wouldn't have anything at all if my parents weren't paying my way through the academy. No offense. Really."

"None taken," Jonathan tried to say confidently, only managing a fraction of the bravado he'd intended as he hopped down from the truck, put his hands on his hips, and paced a few feet away. Ethan followed just behind him.

"Honest, buddy, I know times have been tough for you and your family, and now with your dad gone-- I'm sorry if…"

Jonathan stopped and turned to his friend with an empty smile and light clap on the shoulder. "I said it's fine. Listen, I've got more things to do so--but thanks for coming by. I appreciate it."

"I'm sorry, man," he heard again before heading up the front steps and going inside.

The front door clicked behind him.

"Jonathan? Is that you?"

Of course, it wouldn't be anyone else, but she still asked out of habit. "Yeah, mom," he sighed and headed upstairs toward her voice.

He stopped at the end of the hall and edged the bedroom door open.. It felt strange being there. As a child, he would often wake with nightmares in the middle of the night and climb in between his mother and father, claiming he he'd only missed them and disliked being alone. If they didn't believe him, they never said. But that had been a very long time ago.

Now, his mother sat on the floor next to a large box, folding clothes. 

"What are you doing?" he asked uncertainly.

"I'm just going through some of your father's things. I'm sure there are people who could use them," she said quietly.

"Now?" He faltered for half a second then gathered himself. "I can do that. You don't have to."

"No, no. I'll do it. You might want to look through these, though. You're taller than he was., but there still may be some things that you can-" she trailed off.

Jonathan stepped closer, squatted on his heels, and picked up the shirt his mother had been folding. It was denim blue and heavy, unlike most of the thinner, cooler, white shirts Hiram often wore. His fingers touched reverently over the buttons down the left side as he recalled winter days past and clutched the fabric tighter if holding on to the memories themselves. Silently, he slipped the heavier shirt over the flannel plaid he already wore.

A single tear slipped down Jessica's face. Then another. And another. Until she couldn't hold them in any longer. The more she tried to stop them, the more of them fell. Jonathan got to his knees and hugged her to him, not knowing what else to do but hoping it would be enough.

There, on his mother's floor, he lost the little boy who had wandered in so many nights to be sheltered in his parents' arms, and found the man he needed to be.

TBC... 


	17. Chapter 17

Martha looked up from the mound of books that lay strewn across the table in front of her and smiled welcomingly as she pulled out the chair next to her. "I wasn't sure you were coming."

Jonathan dropped heavily into the seat she offered. "I had to stay late for my lit. class," he complained bitterly, tossing his notebooks on the table alongside hers. "Apparently, Adler knows more about Hamlet than Shakespeare himself."

The corner of an exam paper protruded out from the pages of one textbook. She playfully snatched it and held out it in front of him. "So, how is World Lit going these days?" Before he could grab it back, an unmistakable 'D' glared back her. Jonathan flipped open a notebook and began scribbling busily into it, very obviously not commenting.

"Well, it's only one paper," she stammered, laying the paper down, hoping to salvage the conversation. Jonathan didn't take failure well, and she knew, at times, he thought the whole world sat in judgment of him. She could certainly empathize with that feeling.

"I bombed the test. You can say it," he answered dejectedly, dropping the pencil he was writing with onto the notebook and leaning back in his chair, still not looking at her.

"It's just one quiz. We just got back. Don't worry about it. This Saturday we'll go over some notes and-"

"I can't. I have work to do."

Well, he sure wasn't leaving any room for discussion.

He hunched over his notebook and started to write again. "Okay," she continued tentatively, turning the pages of the notebook in front of her but not really looking at them. "How about I help you with whatever you have to do and we work on some homework afterward?"

"'Fraid not."

Short response. No eye contact. Duly noted.

"I see. So when exactly do you plan on doing this work?" she asked, still being patient but getting the feeling that she'd be more successful navigating a mine field.

"I don't know."

There was no mistaking it now--"You're upset," she said more carefully.

Brilliant, she thought. Way to state the obvious. If he'd heard her, he didn't answer, just kept writing. And she was pretty certain he had. Personally, if she were him, she probably would have wanted to crawl under the covers this morning and not bother with school at all.

"I'm sure if you talk to the professors and tell them your situation, they'll give you more time. They'd understand."

The pencil he'd been writing with dropped noisily to the desk again. He rubbed at his eyes, put his face in his hands, then dropped them on the notebook in front of him and looked back at her. For the first time, she could see how red his eyes were, how tired.

"I'm not going to need more time, Martha. I'm leaving school." 

Before she had time to process what he'd said, much less formulate some kind of response, Jonathan was already getting up from his chair and had begun busily gathering up his things, still avoiding looking at her directly.

"I guess it's official now. I'm a farmer and that's all I'll ever be," he said briskly, throwing one folder roughly on top of another.

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I said. At the end of the week I'm out of here." He paused, closed his eyes, and opened them again, slowly. "I wasn't going to say anything until later, but I guess it's just as well you know now. I'm not coming back." 

By now, several pairs of eyes had lost interest in whatever they were supposed to be studying and focused on the more interesting education in front of them. Jonathan's eyes flicked uneasily from left to right and he reshuffled his things.

"Maybe we should go outside."

Martha nodded that she agreed, while he tucked what books he had under his arm. His hand went to the small of her back and guided her through the library, out into the courtyard.

"Look,"he said, stopping at the large, round fountain. "I can't do this anymore, the hours, the exams. I need to take care of things at home. It's where I belong, where I'm needed."

"Well...you can always come back next year," she suggested timidly, but even before his response, she knew what the answer would be.

"No. I can't."

She wanted to be angry. Hell, for once she wanted him to be angry. But he wasn't, and that frightened her. He looked older, his eyes having lost their youthful optimism, his stance less solid under the weight of all that had fallen on his shoulders recently.

"I'm sorry," she offered gently, taking his hand.

It was a feeble thing to say, but "Sure it's manageable" was a boldfaced lie. It was all he could do just to get part of the work done when his father was alive. And "That's okay" wouldn't be any more helpful. Martha new better than anyone how hard Jonathan had worked to try and give himself options his father had never had. The idea that all of it had, in the end, left him right where he'd started seemed beyond cruel, but that was the last thing he needed to hear. She gave his hand a light squeeze.

"Yeah, me too." 

xxxxxxx

"I will not allow you to do this." Jessica Kent gaped wide-eyed at her son and dropped the pile of clothes she'd carried from upstairs onto the couch. "Jonathan Kent, I forbid it."

"Mom, I'm almost twenty years old. You can't 'forbid me.' It's not up to you. It's up to me, and I've made up my mind."

She walked around from the front of the couch and stood directly in front of her son, as if being that much closer might make it easier to understand her. "You may be too old for a lot of things but respecting your mother isn't one of them," she said. "If your father were here, he would never have wanted you to--"

"Well, he's not here." 

Jonathan hadn't meant for his tone to be so harsh. Or maybe he had. He wasn't sure. Half the time he felt like he didn't know what the hell he was saying anymore. But the sight of his mother's pained expression took hold of his insides and gave a hard twist. 

Mrs. Kent glanced at the floor, swallowed, and looked at him again. "Son, your father loved this place, but he loved you more. He would never have wanted you to give up your own dreams for something that didn't make you happy. He wanted so many things for you. You've given up too much already. I won't let you do it again, not this time."

He blinked in surprise. "Yes, I know about the scholarship to Met U. I saw the letter on the table after your graduation. I didn't say anything then because as long as you still found a way to follow your own path, I wanted you to be able to make your own decisions. A full load of classes, football practice, away games, they wouldn't have left much time for trips back home, would they?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

It was true. He had been offered a full scholarship. But even a year ago his father had been showing signs of his age, though he would never have admitted that he couldn't handle things. The best solution, as Jonathan had seen it, was a very light class load and a job that would still have allowed him to come and go to Smallville easily. 

"Your father knew you loved him, Jonathan. You don't have to prove it."

"I know that," he said hurriedly, crossing his arms in front of himself, unable to meet his mother's gaze.

She put a hand to his shoulder. "Do you?" 

He didn't respond, just kept his eyes trained on the floor in front of him and clenched his jaw tighter. "I have work to do," he said finally, and tried to move past her into the kitchen.

"Not this time." His mother spoke decisively and took her hand from his arm, pressing it to his chest, keeping him where he stood. "You can't keep running, Jonathan. How long are you going to keep this up?"

"I don't know what you mean."

She sighed and dropped her hands to her hips. "You hardly ever sleep. You come in and out of the house just long enough to eat and you barely say two words when you do. Son, I'm worried about you. If you can't talk to me, you've got to talk to someone. I'm not going to watch you run yourself into the ground."

He peered down at her from under half-lowered lids, restless and uneasy under such close scrutiny. "I'm fine, mom."

"No, you are not," she insisted.

His gaze quickly turned from apprehensive to angry. "What do you want from me? You think if I sit around and talk about what happened it's going to change anything? Are the bills suddenly going to be paid? Is everything suddenly going to be all better?" He raised a hand and pointed a finger at the backdoor in the kitchen behind her. "Is dad suddenly going to walk through that door and say 'It's not your fault'?" Though his words had been swift and sharp, his breath caught at the last.

"What's not your fault?"

Before his mother could stop him, Jonathan grabbed his coat from the back of the couch, turned and marched out the front door. Jessica followed him as far as the front porch. "Jonathan!"

He didn't stop.

TBC...


	18. Chapter 18

"Hello?"

"Martha, dear, have you heard from Jonathan?"

Martha sat up in her bed and cradled the receiver closer to her ear, blinking away the cobwebs of sleep from her mind. "No, Mrs. Kent. Not since this morning. Is everything all right?"

"I'm sorry. I know it's late, but I thought he might have called or come to see you."

The unease in the woman's voice only heightened Martha's worry. "Mrs. Kent, is everything all right?" she asked again, sweeping a strand of hair nervously behind one ear.

"I don't know what happened. We had words about his not going back to school. He got angry and left. At first, I thought he just went out to work but that was hours ago, and he never stays out this late. I've called all his friends. I can't find him."

Martha glanced over at the clock on her nightstand: 1:01 p.m.

"When did he leave?"

"I'm not sure. It's been hours," she repeated.

By now, Martha was on her feet and dragging the phone, tangled cords and all, to her closet, dressing hurriedly in the first clothes she found there. "Everything will be fine Mrs. Kent. I'll find him. Don't worry." She didn't wait for a reply before hanging up the phone.

She was still fighting with her coat, trying to convince it that two arms could indeed fit into the same hole as she made her way hastily downstairs. Somehow she managed to find her keys and was headed to the first place she could think of. The only place no one had been.

As she pulled into the college parking lot, it occurred to her that it might not have been the best idea to wander around the empty streets of the Met U. campus at this late hour alone. The dark, empty streets and the echo of her footsteps against the hard pavement sent an uneasy tingle down her back. She pulled her coat closed and quickened her pace. The tall fountain outside of the library was only a few yards away now.

"Jonathan," she breathed with relief as she approached.

There he was, sitting on the very bench were they had met so many months ago, his shoulders slouched, his face turned toward the shadows. He didn't give a response.

"Your mom's been worried sick. She c-" Martha's eyes dropped to the bottle clasped between both of his hands. "Have you been drinking?"

Her disbelief must have given a shake to his dulled synapses. He turned to her, looking as though he were discovering the truth of it himself, and took another sip. "I am drinking," he corrected before setting the now empty bottle on the ground by a nearly empty case under his seat.

Martha blinked several times. "I see. Do you mind telling me what you hope to accomplish?"

An ineloquent snort was all he offered, then turned away from her. "Just go home," he added stiffly while picking up another bottle and popping off the cap.

If he was looking for sympathy now, he wasn't going to get it. What he needed was to be jerked up by his pity-pants and given a good shake. "Why? So you can become a self-loathing drunk just like your friend Steve?"

He turned back, wide-eyed. "That's not--I'm not Steve Sanders, Martha." 

"Really? Take a good look at yourself, Jonathan. It's pretty hard to tell the difference from here." She crossed her arms and watched him process this information, slowed considerably by the alcohol. His shoulders dropped in defeat, eyes once again turned to his feet.

"I don't need a lecture, all right? I just want to be left alone."

"Sometimes we don't get everything we want."

He looked to her again, this time with a coolness in his gaze that stirred her feelings of unease again. A wry grin spread wickedly across his lips. "You don't think I know that?" He stood, bottle in hand, and took a step in her direction, leaving barely a few inches between them. "You don't think I know that?" he repeated in a lower tone. Martha considered taking a step back but stood her ground.

Without warning, he hurled the glass bottle at the base of the fountain behind them with an angry roar. Liquid and glass spattered the ground. Martha flinched at the outburst but stayed put.

She drew a long breath. "I know you do," she said quietly. "But this isn't the answer."

He stared at the broken glass behind her, not responding. She could see the anger and hurt rising and receding in him but not spilling over a second time.

"But we'll find one, okay?"

She tried to take his hand only to have him pull it back, still not answering.

"I'm bringing you home. If you want to fight me on it, I guess that's what you'll have to do, but I think I can take you," she informed him.

Finally, he looked at her, puzzled. He appeared to be considering if she were serious or not and must have decided she was because when she took his arm, he didn't resist. "Let's go." 

TBC...


	19. Chapter 19

Jonathan's walk was a little less steady than usual but he managed to make it back to the car without incident. Martha helped him into the passenger side of her car and closed the door after him, probably a little harder than necessary, and made her way to the driver's side. 

"You're angry with me."

She wasn't certain if it was surprise or remorse she had noted in his words. Maybe it was both. "Yes," she replied honestly, putting the key in the ignition and starting the vehicle.

He remained silent for a beat before answering thoughtfully, "You've never been angry with me before."

"Well, there's a first time for everything."

She stole a glance in his direction and spied his reflexive flinch as he leaned to his right and rested his head against the car window.

Neither spoke again for the next twenty minutes. But Jonathan perked up when the car came to an unexpected stop.

"Where are we?"

"My parents' house."

He blinked and peered out of his window to confirm this announcement. If he was still feeling any significant effects from his late-night venture, that swiftly sobered him up. "What are we doing here?"

"I can't very well drive all the way to Smallville at this hour. You can sleep upstairs and we'll leave first thing in the morning before my parents wake up. I'll call your mom and let her know you're all right."

He blinked several more times and squinted back at her, still confused. "Are you crazy?"

"No, I'm just tired." Martha rested her hands on the steering wheel and let her head fall back against the seat's headrest. Then she opened the car door and looked at Jonathan who continued to stare back at her hoping this would all be some strange little joke and he was desperately awaiting the punch-line.

Still hesitant, he did as he was told and stepped out onto the driveway . Martha was already beside him, offering any assistance that might be necessary, but he was steady on his feet. They walked together in silence to the front door and Jonathan waited patiently as Martha worked the lock with her key.

"Need some help?"

She almost laughed but managed to only give him a quick, semi-amused look. He'd be lucky to find his nose at the moment, much less a keyhole in the dark. "That's okay. I've got it."

Just as Martha said the words, the knob turned obligingly. She took Jonathan's arm to pull him inside.

"I still don't think--" he began worriedly.

"If you were thinking at all, you wouldn't be in this mess."

His mouth was still open mid-sentence, and he promptly closed it.

Quietly, they wandered through the darkened space in front of them and started up the staircase, which Jonathan tripped on with a resounding thud. "Ssshhh! I don't want my father to wake up."

"Well, that would make two of us, Martha." Though she couldn't see his face, she could practically hear the roll of his eyes.

Jonathan took the handrail to help guide and steady himself and both made their way carefully up the stairs again. When they reached the upstairs rooms, Martha pulled him toward the door to their right and pushed it open. "I'll get you a blanket," she whispered as they walked in, closing the door quietly behind them.

"You mean my burial shroud?" came mordantly from behind her.

"It just might be," she retorted.

Again, he must have heard the impatience in her voice because anything he might have said in response was swiftly muted.

Martha disappeared into her closet, then reappeared shortly after with an armful of heavy blankets and a pillow then arranged them just so on the floor beside her bed. "There we are," she said, placing the pillow at the top, pleased with her work.

"Well done," he commented absently, almost mockingly, not looking in her direction. Now that he'd actually said more than a few words, Martha discovered alcohol had a way of stripping that Kent charm down to the core. How lovely.

"You just sit," she answered curtly and guided him to the edge of her bed. She made short work of his shoes and the buttons on his shirt. Although, when she got to the last, the shy, uncertain look on his face reminded her that this might not exactly be her Jonathan, but he was definitely still in there somewhere.

"Don't get too excited," she chided, still managing to sound cross with him. "I'm just making you more comfortable."

"I wasn't--I didn't--I was just--" Even the darkness couldn't hide the redness that colored his cheeks then.

"Just go to sleep, Jonathan." 

Martha's tone was gentler this time. He took a deep breath and removed his shirt the rest of the way before settling down on the makeshift bed and pulling the covers over himself, making himself comfortable.

After a quick call to the Kent farm from downstairs, Martha returned to her room. She tiptoed into the bathroom a few feet a way from her bed and closed the door. When she opened it again, she wore a long t-shirt that reached all the way down to her knees. She walked quickly to her bed and slipped hurriedly under the covers.

"Don't worry. I didn't see anything," Jonathan sighed from the floor, sounding half asleep already.

Now it was Martha's turn to blush. She had thought the conversation would be over with that remark but not a minute later her ears were greeted with a soft, "Hey, Martha?"

"Yes, Jonathan."

"I could be more than just a farmer, you know." The edge had gone from his voice and he sounded again like the humbled young man she loved so dearly.

"I know that," she said, beginning to feel drowsy herself . Of course she knew and so did he. But sometimes a person just needs to hear the words. Kisses on childhood bruises never actually had any healing power, but they soothed the hurt just the same.

Both drifted off to sleep.

"I'm tired of always understanding! This is my chance to be something!"

Hiram looked up from the kitchen table at his seventeen-year-old son and frowned disapprovingly as he set his mug of coffee down. "Don't you raise your voice to me, young man. You might be bigger than me these days but don't think I won't still tan your hide. Maybe you're mister big shot around school, but this is still my house and till the day you pay the bills, I still have final say under this roof."

"Well, maybe I won't live here then," Jonathan grumbled, containing some of his earlier anger but only barely managing civility. "I won't be a nobody farmer." 

Hiram sat back in his chair and eyed his son candidly. "So that's you think I am, is it? Just a nobody farmer?" he said, a small hint of hurt in his voice belying the unaffected facade he was trying to maintain.

Jonathan held his father's unwavering stare for a tense moment before striding angrily past him and heading out the font door to the barn. But before he got there, though, he stopped. Some part of him filled with dread, a panicked feeling that he should turn back. "Go back before it's too late" his head screamed. Suddenly terrified, he sprinted back into the house in search of his father. "Dad! Dad, I'm sorry!" he called frantically, feeling his own desperation grip around him like the hangman's noose. "Dad!"

But there was no one there, only an empty chair.

With an abrupt jerk, Jonathan found himself sitting up in the dark, breathing heavily.

"Are you all right?"

Martha's quiet worried, voice cut through the darkness and brought him back to the present.

"I'm fine," he breathed, his voice a little shaken.

At first, there was no response and then, "You were calling for your dad." It was uncertain and timid but concerned all at the same time.

When he didn't answer, Martha slid out of her bed and kneeled beside him on the floor, trying hard to see something of his expression in the dark. She knew just how fine he was, and she wasn't buying it this time. When he still didn't respond, she slid a hand down his arm to find his, clasped it in hers, then stood and gave it a small tug. He got his feet without objection.

Martha looked over her shoulder at him to gauge his reaction. The moonlight had cast a soft glow across his angled features, his sullen blue eyes turned a more pale blue that seemed to reflect the colorless existence he saw laid out before him. Silently, she slipped back into her bed, bringing him along. He hesitated at first, but when she wrapped her arms around him from behind and rested her cheek against the back of his shoulder, he relaxed into the solace she offered and closed his eyes to find sleep again.

TBC...


End file.
